Total Eclipse of the Heart
by Enjambed Caesuras
Summary: Ginevra Weasley's love affair with Tom Riddle has left her an unwilling member of the Order. Draco Malfoy has always performed the duties associated with his name even when they contradicted his own beliefs. Will a chance meeting fuel drastic change? GWDM
1. Author Comments

**Author's Comments**

Ginevra Weasley still feels the repercussions of her love affair with Tom Riddle. An unwilling member of the Order, she wishes nothing more than to escape the constraints of her role. Draco Malfoy has always performed the duties associated with his name. An unwilling Death Eater he wants no part in the war between good and evil. Will a chance meeting unhinge the wheels destined to grant them both their freedoms?

Updates are bimonthly.

**Updates:**

May 10th 2005 – Ginny's anniversary party is crashed by an unwelcome guest. Will an exchange of words at midnight over a cigarette form an allegiance or confirm old convictions?

May 11th 2005 – Thank you to my first reviewer Caz-10-5 for the constructive criticism. I looked at the grammar, and you were right, it should be "borne" not "bared" in this instance: _had she not bared the name of Weasley_

As per your second comment, of Ginny's Disapparation trick, I verified with the _Harry Potter Lexicon_, and there is an Apparition Ban for Apparating from outside of Hogwarts into Hogwarts, but there is no mention of a ban on Apparating within Hogwarts given that you are already there. Since Ginny knows where she is going, I would suppose that she would be able to Apparate anywhere inside Hogwarts. She wouldn't be able to Apparate outside of Hogwarts or inside Hogwarts given that she was outside. In any case, Wizard geometrics are confusing. I'm still working them out!

May 13th 2005 – I couldn't resist posting the second chapter. Draco Malfoy has a visitor by "special" portkey, as he reflects on his current life.

May 24th 2005 – And angry ferret and a potion gone wrong are causing Ginny to reflect on the current decisions she has made in her life. Then, a feud with resident pest Draco Malfoy leaves her scheming.

June 23rd 2005 – Draco and Pansy have a heated discussion by the side of the lake about the future of Slytherin house and their allegiances in the war. Could there perhaps be hope for the Slytherins' myopic view of the world?

September 12th 2005 – Does anyone still remember me? No updates in a long time I know, but I'm still writing. Draco finally finds out why Ginny charmed his looks. Thanks for all the reviews so far. Updated chapter 1 with corrections/improvements.

October 2nd 2005 – Draco takes a moment to examine Ginny Weasley, and discovers more than he had believed was possible. Can they be more similar than he had previously thought possible? Warning: Another prose-heavy chapter. I hope that snarky dialogue makes up for that, however!

Thank you so much for all of those that reviewed the previous chapter. Your reviews make me smile and motivate me to do my best at writing. For those that asked, Crimbo is British slang for Christmas, and plonker is slang for a fool. I'll try to define more of the weird Brit terms as we progress through the story. Here's to hoping you like this!

December 26th 2005 – Finally it's Wednesday, but Draco's luck seems to not have improved in any way. Another verbal-stand off with Ginny leaves Draco feeling more confused than ever. Meanwhile, the Trio's plans take a very interesting turn for the better. Or is it for the worst?

Thank you to all that have reviewed so far. My sincerest apologies that the updates are few and far in between. College life is not all that it's cracked up to be. Four hours of sleep per night and two sets of midterms followed by exams and projects killed me this semester. But hopefully this winter break there will be a couple of more updates!


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The cigarette lit up brightly as she brought it to her lips. A galaxy of tiny red stars flickered in the darkness of the night, the only indication that not all was soundly asleep. And then, contrasted against the background was the puff of grey smoke that emerged like a genie out of a lamp and was swallowed by the darkness just as promptly.

It had been her last draw, and with a certain amount of distaste she threw the still-smoking butt on the ground and squished it with her foot. Like a god would squash a bug out of existence. But she didn't pause to think about those implications, and the butt extinguished effectively and efficiently, with the perfect amount of noiselessness required for transmitting a message of sheer insignificance. It had been a perfectly executed deed, for not all could put out a fag so smoothly, but she didn't pause to think about that either.

Immediately, another prickle of red points glowed at the end of her new fag, and she exhaled the smoke slowly, allowing it first to soak through her insides and to trigger the endlessly satisfying sensation of light-headed heaviness. The practice of smoking fags in pairs was now a ritual that she no longer took any notice to, not that she had ever paid attention to how many she could smoke in one sitting. All that she sought was the feeling of disconnectedness that came with every puff.

Tonight, she wanted nothing more than to feel disconnected from the world, both in the physical and psychological sense, so as to revel most exclusively in the intensity of her own inner turmoil. It wasn't every day that she allowed herself to unbury and unleash the floodgates of gratuitous self-punishment. It was hence deeply ironic that nature seemed to be uncooperative, almost as if it sensed her desire to float away from reality and drown into the poisons of her own crafting. It was trying to lure her with the silence of the blades of grass shrunken into one another in gracious sleep, and with the illustrious absence of light, all orchestrated by a cloud that simply refused to unveil the moon's playful slivers of silver light. But she was not to be deterred. Even the peaceful quietness that tempted her to savour the deeply mundane facet of the sleeping world couldn't distract her tonight. That very world had lost its right to interfere in her affairs long before, when it tried to regulate her behaviour through a systematic denial of consequence.

However, standing here in the comforting darkness, with the bitter taste of tobacco in her mouth she couldn't help but remember him. Mouthing his name on her lips soundlessly reminded her of the black mass rituals she had read about in Restricted Books. Those were the only rituals where names were dangerous two-edged swords that could bind and be bonded. It was the blackest of magic, transcending blood, and kin pursuing instead the essence of one's soul, consuming it in the name of power.

Saying his name always filled her with an uncanny surge of energy, a deeper, darker form of magic that resided in the dark recesses of her mind. It seemed to tap into a part of her mind that had been closed off and could only be accessed through the vehicle that was his name. On this night, more so than on all others she could acutely feel the effect of her invocation. It wasn't only knowledge, power and skill that flooded through her at his mention, but also the part of him that she carried inside of her.

She could feel his invisible hands tracing her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth, before sliding down her neck and embracing her from behind, fiercely holding her captive in their stronghold, while his invisible face buried itself in her hair and inhaled with tantalizing slowness the scent of her, replacing it with his own. The musky smell of dusty quill washed over her, and his invisible lips felt like fibrous papyrus on hers. She could almost taste the dryness, unsaturated yet by moist ink.

All of it was a fabrication of her mind, she was perfectly aware of that, but the delicious terror that was creeping up the walls of her stomach gripped her nonetheless, and she could only savour the shivers that flickered through her muscles as she stumbled forward into the night looking for any pillar to support her weight and help her regain her balance. She breathed the cool air in deeply, but could not feel its crisp fragrance. She was too lost in the musky smell of old ink, and old words, and old feelings. It was all around her like a sinful disease, his promise for a slow and cankerous death that he had not yet broken, and she found herself unable and un-wanting to do anything to escape it. They both knew that she couldn't, that she was permanently tied to him, body, mind and soul.

And so, tonight was their night. Their black celebration, their perverse ritual where he rekindled his mark of ownership and she willingly accepted his brand. As much as everyone else might have convinced themselves that she had forgotten him, that she had escaped him, it had been six years and she had not managed to set one foot outside his sphere of influence. The desires of freedom that had surged to tempt her will had long wilted before her impassive stare.

He had had her once, and now there was no going back. The light of second cigarette faded as she squashed it into the ground beside its counterpart.

"Well, well, well, look at what we have here," came a hiss to her right, from a distinctly male voice dripping with venom.

She jumped, startled, but did not squeak, rather turned to face the disturbance with cold alacrity. "Malfoy, what do you want?" she asked, matching his tone.

"Tsk tsk, Weaselette. Out after curfew _and_ smoking a cigarette. That'll have to be at least twenty points from Gryffin_dork_, and another five for being a Prefect and setting a bad example," he sneered in her direction and leaned languidly against the wall of the school, hands in his pockets and smirk pasted perfectly on his face.

"Right, and I could say the same considering you're the Head Boy and thus setting a bad example for the entire student body," she parried.

"You can't take points off the Head Boy."

"And why not?"

"Because," he remarked, "I'll put them right back where they belong. Really, it's a futile attempt that will only cause you to lose more points."

She scoffed, dropping the argument in favour of lighting a third cigarette and puffing out of it slowly as she took his example and leaned against the wall. The memories had taken a lot out of her and she wasn't quite sure that she could walk without embarrassing herself in front of Slytherin's Most Magnificent Bastard.

It really was a most unfortunate occurrence that she had been caught, and by him of all people. In all the years that Ginny had been sneaking out after curfew nobody else had taken any notice to her absences. It was only deserving then, that the year when he would be Head Boy her luck would decide to run short. It made sense when you pondered it, that she, Gryffindor's wolf in sheep's clothing would be caught by Slytherin's most irascible vermin. He would undoubtedly make the remainder of the year rise to a yet unprecedented dimension of hell. Ginny wondered, not for the first time, which god she had angered to deserve such deft punishment.

"Well aren't you going to share, or am I going to have to confiscate your little stash?" he asked, once again interrupting her enjoyable silence.

It occurred to her briefly that he was an insufferable, spoilt git with an attitude so large it raised dubious questions about what he was trying to compensate for, and that she should just simply stalk off and leave him there on his own. But then again, the prospects of smoking a fag with Draco Malfoy, resident pest-that-refused-to-be-killed-by-insecticide who had ruined the private celebration of her anniversary seemed intriguing. Not to mention that she wasn't looking forward to the badgering that would later ensue if she pulled her little stunt. Vaguely, Ginny remembered hexing him in fourth year, a time when she still believed in the insistence of the world that claimed She Was Fine and that He Had No Power Over Her and was busy embracing the stigma of normality that came with being a fourteen year old girl. Now, two years later, that period of her life seemed so distant it felt like an alternate lifetime. He had conclusively proven to her the price of denial. She knew better than to try it again.

"Help yourself," Ginny beckoned, returning her attention to the current situation, and threw in his direction the nearly-empty pack without further preambles.

Malfoy's hand darted out immediately and caught it from flight without the smallest blink of surprise. She couldn't help but notice that his seeker instincts were as sharp as ever and wondered vaguely what would have happened if she had remained on the team and continued her pretended charade. Somehow, she doubted she would have been here today. That room at St. Mungos practically had her name inscribed on it until she had, in a fit of desperation taken to smoking the strongest cigarettes she could get her hands on. For a while it had helped. And now, she had found her true vocation and things were better. The nights of screaming behind the curtains of her bed had morphed into mellow insomnia and the hallucinations had eventually stopped.

"I need the lighter too," he spoke again as he threw her back the pack, and her own hand darted out to catch it in mid-flight. Some things once learned could never be forgotten. Muscles often worked without cranial input.

"You're a wizard Malfoy, use your wand," she scoffed at him.

"The whole point of engaging in a Muggle habit, peasant, is that you do it the Muggle way," he sneered back. "I'm sure that no-good father of yours explained to you what a Muggle lighter does."

Were it any other day, perhaps she would have jumped up to defend her sire, Arthur Weasley. Or perhaps not, Ginny reflected musingly, as her connection with her family presently extended as far as mundane conversation and packages and occasional cohabitation. But considering that this was Malfoy, and she was a Weasley, he serpent and she lion maybe she would have taken the bait in the name of continuing a tradition that benefited nobody. Tonight, however, she was both weary of and disconnected from everything that was the Weasley family. Having no intention of being drawn back into the reality she had sought to flee, Ginny held her tongue against the insult. 'A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet', Shakespeare had said, and in accordance to that saying, had she not borne the name of Weasley, she would have still been his, prey to the same string of inky words that had bonded her heart, her soul, her magic into everything and anything that was he.

"Happy now?" she questioned as she threw in his direction the yellow lighter, a sarcastically jovial colour when contrasted with the thoughts that plagued her.

"Quite," he replied, drawing in and then expelling a puff of grey smoke as he propped his right foot against the wall, and rocked slowly back and forth.

Ginny didn't grace him with a reply, lost again in her own thoughts and reflections that did not concern him or the mundane world that he represented through his presence. And he too fell silent as they smoked together, in the dark, each doing exactly what they had come to do, flee an all too superfluous reality. Amongst the greying smoke and silent breaths, rivalry was forgotten for the duration of the moment.

"Well, that felt good," Malfoy observed while he stomped his butt into the ground. "Nothing like a little cancer-stick to brighten up one's day," he added, in an obvious attempt to display his knowledge of Muggle diseases.

She failed to be impressed, and, not without a heavy touch of sarcasm noted, "It's night Malfoy."

"For a Slytherin, the night is the day, Weaselette," he explained, drawing up one exquisitely manicured finger in a gesture she had often seen in Professor Snape's Potions classroom. It was uncanny how all Slytherins seemed to display the same common set of pretentious mannerisms. Maybe there was something in the food that they ate.

Ginny scoffed back in a semblance of nonchalance, yet she was unable to stop the flood of memory that raced through her because of his observation. She shivered, acknowledging the truth of his words not because she believed he was right but because experience reminded her of the fact. Under his guile, the night had been her day and she had rejoiced in this inversion that allowed her to be one with him. The night had always been their ally. Mysterious and silent, it always kept her secrets as her bloodstained fingers wrote his wishes unto walls, summoned the darkest creatures and continued the mission which he had awaited to complete for decades. Even after he had left her, Ginny had continued to revel in the night, blooming under the darkness, a rose with petals made of onyx.

"Touché, Malfoy," she conceded and deeming tonight's celebration over, moved past him to make her way inside and to her bed where hopefully the nightmares would not visit.

It was as she was leaving that he moved from his place and came to stand in front of her, blocking her path with his taller body. "Where do you think you're going?" he questioned, grey eyes starring coldly down at her from a face framed by long and wispy pale-blonde locks.

He could have almost passed for a female, Ginny observed, were it not for the firm setting of his jaw and the straightness of his nose from where he examined her with a shrewdly hawkish expression fitted for a king. His mouth, however, betrayed the severity that he forced into his features, for his bottom lip was lush and full and red, almost as if it had been kissed too many times with ardent eagerness. It would have been a sensuous and generous mouth, were it not for the poison that it spearheaded daily into its victims, and not even the perfection of his gently-sloping lips could hide the forked serpent's tongue that hid within. His body too, was distinctly masculine, disciplined by years of flying and Quiddich practice. His shoulders were strong, as were undoubtedly his legs and his chest was taut and lean. A body shaped by the aerodynamics of flying, meant to give him an absolute advantage when he mounted his broom. She could help but relish the irony that despite his perfectly sculpted build he still had not managed to beat Harry at Quiddich. She supposed it was again the workings of fate, the great balancer of one's good and bad deeds.

Too late Ginny realised that she was starring at him. Numerous seconds had elapsed in silence between the moment when he had stepped into her path and she had begun to stare at him. And yet, she could not find it in herself to be embarrassed for she felt not the pangs of hormonal attraction that usual girls acquired when starring at Draco Malfoy. Quite on the contrary, Ginny could justify her starring to the simple curiosity that one feels towards petulant, attention-seeking children. And in her mind there was no doubt that her attention was what Malfoy wanted. He always seemed to thrive in the spotlight.

"What, am I not allowed to make my way towards my own dormitory, Malfoy?" she challenged sarcastically, raising one perfectly-shaped red eyebrow at him.

"Not when you haven't told me why you were out here after curfew, Weasley," he snarled back, matching her expression with ease.

"In case your sense of observation failed to notice, I was smoking a fag."

"At one in the morning?"

He was trying to rile her so that she would explode at him and say something that he could get her into more trouble for. However, what Malfoy did not know was that she was not Ron, and therefore had supremely advanced control of the famous Weasley temper. Not that there was much of it coursing through her veins anymore. "Yes Malfoy, at one in the morning. What exactly is so strange about that?" she asked, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"All good little Gryffin_dorks_ should be sleeping at this hour of the night. This is not a time for the weak of heart to be prancing about."

"Then what are you doing here Malfoy? Shouldn't you be hiding from the boogieman underneath your covers?" she challenged, her lips twisting in a smirk.

"Weaselette, if I told you what I was doing out here at this hour, I'd have to kill you afterwards." The grin that twisted his lips into a snarl warned of danger.

"Then I suggest you be a good little snake and crawl underneath the same rock from whence you came forth, unless you want both your fangs and your tongue pulled out," she informed him, maliciously. He wasn't the only one that knew how to make effective threats.

"You're so noble you probably don't even know how to hurt a fly," he sneered.

This time, however, Ginny couldn't suppress the laughter that bubbled to her lips. "Malfoy, you wouldn't even be able to dream of the ways in which I could torture you. Now I believe I have wasted enough of my time indulging in the games of one petulant, spoiled git. Goodnight." Deftly, she sidestepped him before he could react, and hurried up the steps to the Great Hall without a backwards glance.

"That's Magnificent Petulant Spoiled Git to you, Weaselette," Malfoy muttered, but by that time she was already long gone.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Draco Malfoy chuckled to himself as he leaned back against the wall and took out his own pack of cigarettes, lighting one anew. He had been surprised to note that he and the Weaselette smoked the same kind of Muggle fags. But then again, he had always maintained that accidents happened. A Weasley who endorsed in something of quality had yet to be heard of and, hence, could only be an ironically accidental occurrence.

Puffing languidly out of his fag, Draco took out his expensive pocket watch and checked the time. Fifteen minutes until his contact was scheduled to arrive here, from Hogsmeade, by special portkey. Thankfully, the Weaselette had left before he had been forced to Stupefy and Obliviate her. His dealings were his own business and he had no need for nosy Weasleys interfering in his carefully orchestrated plans, which, if he executed properly, would preserve the Malfoy fortune and the Malfoy name.

He sighed, taking another drag and exhaling it slowly through his nostrils, a futile attempt to distract himself from the grim thoughts that swam through his head. Everything, his home, his fortune, his name, not to mention the lives of his mother and himself lay in the precarious balance of the blasted war between good and evil. And he, unwilling participant, had been dragged right into the middle of it. His hands had been tied even before he thought to utter a word of protest, and now he was stuck in a puppet-play rivalry whose connotations were all too real. After all, he couldn't exactly say "no" to Lord Voldemort, but nor could he find it in himself to whole-heartedly join a cause whose advantages he did not see. Draco Malfoy's sole concern happened to be the preservation of his way of life, which included expensive clothes, summer sojourns in Switzerland and exquisite caviar dishes. He cared naught for Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort, lieutenants of good and evil warring with one another. They could do so for all eternity just so long as they left him out of their strife.

For the millionth time in two years, he once again thanked his bastardly father for implicating the family in a war where both sides stood to lose tremendously before they reached any sort of resolution. It left him trapped between a rock and a hard place, since becoming the Dark Lord's personal trust fund held greater appeal than losing his life on the grounds of disobedience. The choice, however, held little other benefits as it trampled on everything he had been raised to believe about himself and the Malfoy name. His most reoccurring thought was that life was a zero-sum game and that that he was paying now for fifteen years of unperturbed existence in the lap of all luxury. He was perfectly aware that in the big books of life he deserved no abstraction from this only rule, but the thought still made him shiver with cold anger at its injustice. Draco desperately wished that he would have been given the chance to pay for his sins another way.

Now he was Voldemort's personal goblin, and the Malfoy family fortune the Dark Lord's personal Gringotts, from where he freely subsidized his various plights towards bringing the Wizarding World into chaos. Mind you, in seven years, since he had made his reappearance on the stage of the Wizarding World, he had not once been successful in gaining back an ounce of the power he had possessed in the seventeen years previous to his demise. How much longer he needed until he understood that his resurrection was doomed to failure, Draco couldn't predict. Those maniacal power-hungry tyrant types were always mentally unstable.

Underneath his robes, the skin of his right forearm prickled persistently, but he refused to bring forth his left hand to ease the discomfort. Instead, he continued to nonchalantly lean against the wall, practicing the schooling of his features into an iron mask unreflective of his true feelings. He was thankful to Severus Snape for teaching him the art of Occlumency during the summer of his Fifth year. In the two years since he had assumed the responsibilities of his father, it had proved to be a crucial skill that had saved his life on numerous occasions.

He had worked relentlessly at perfecting the art of the double-layered mask, which prevented his true emotions from seeping out, as well as insulated his thoughts from anyone tempted to rummage through his head without his permission. Thankfully, the Dark Lord had assumed that as a son of Lucius his loyalty did not need to be tested through the customary rape of his mental faculties. He had been forced to prove his allegiance in other… more applicable ways.

Against his back, the wall was cold, and Draco shuddered with the memories of the previous summer. He allowed himself the tortures of guilt and shame before slamming the door shut on the sights and smells and sounds that threatened to ruin his precarious internal balance. There would be time to savour the implications of his actions another time, when the stakes did not count so highly on his cool judgement and presence of spirit.

Following the summer, Draco had, however, pleaded with the Dark Lord for minimal involvement in activities with physically traceable results, coating his repulsion in the argument that Aurors had been watching the Malfoys since the imprisonment of his father as a Death Eater in Azkaban. It was nothing but the ultimate truth, as the Ministry's Aurors had been constantly monitoring the visitors coming in and going out of Malfoy Manor, as well as the correspondences of the remaining family members. One wrong move on the behalf of himself or his mother and they would be on their way to Azkaban faster than they could say "Lord Voldemort".

And so, he had been reassigned to the tasks of espionage and information collection despite being an "elite" in the Dark Lord's macabre army. The tyrant's inner circle, to which Draco was an unwilling participant, enthralled themselves with gruesome displays of power through violence. If the summer's activities had been a foreshadowing, they were not about to lessen in coming future. Draco had put himself out of commission before he had enough material to craft himself a never-ending stream of nightmares to plague his dreams.

He was eternally thankful that the threat of the Malfoy fortune falling into public hands had successfully persuaded the Dark Lord into assigning him tasks which would leave no tangible evidence of his involvement. Since the beginning of his final year at Hogwarts he had not even been Summoned to the usual meetings, so dire was his Lord's wishes to keep him safe. The situation, however, did nothing for the Malfoy name, or for his ability to make his own choices. If anything, it restrained him even more, as he knew that both sides would watch his every move for an indication of wavering loyalty.

It was in this manner that he found himself playing both sides against the middle, in a most dangerous gamble for the salvation of his family. The Dark Lord wanted to extend his ears in the heart of Dumbledore's stronghold and had hence delegated Draco to report on the activities of Dumbledore's Army. Placing an informant amongst the student body had been a strategic moment of ingenuity, as his other most trusted spy did not have the necessary social connections to inform him of student activities. History had proven, repeatedly, that young people were a force to be reckoned with, as they had no time to appreciate the meaning of attachments and were rather drowned in their impulses to revolt against the norm and shape the world into what they believed was the "right image". With him amongst the student body, and Snape amongst the staff, the Dark Lord had two pairs of eyes at Hogwarts and hence a preview of the preparations of his enemies.

Draco had never doubted that Lord Voldemort was a brilliant strategist. If anything, two years of working in his elite circle had only proven that fact repeatedly, as the man had shown an almost innate ability to sense the undercurrents flowing through his Dark Army. He showed an almost prophetic capability to prevent uprisings within his own ranks. In short, he ruled with an iron fist that Draco hoped to never encounter head on. Fear was a wonderful tool at the disposition of a ruler and the Dark Lord had its many usages down to an art. One wrong move and death would be a mercy denied to Draco. He had seen with his own eyes the absolute meaning of torture.

As for the Side of Light, Draco had decided to remain uninvolved, entrusting to Snape the task of quieting Dumbledore's suspicion of his involvement in any dark affairs. He had dangled the promise of information before the eyes of a man who feasted upon it, knowing that Snape would not refuse a chance for a pair of ears within the Dark Lord's elite circle. As a son of Lucius Malfoy, right hand of Voldemort, Draco had a reserved seat at the table of elites while Severus Snape was still working his way up through the ranks and proving his worth. It was, Draco observed cynically, the only time when his lineage had actually been an asset rather than a disadvantage. If he were to consider the paradoxical situation in which he found himself, he would perhaps reconsider, but for now he only had the side of the Dark Lord to contend with.

A war on two fronts was never a good idea unless one had the arsenal to permit such a luxury. As one person, Draco could not afford it and held no illusions about the infinity of ways in which he could find himself screaming for his death. As of yet, he had not made up his mind which side could inflict more damage. The arrangement with professor Snape was hence most convenient and mutually beneficial. Draco fell off the radar of Dumbledore's Army, and Snape went above and beyond his call of duty for the aforementioned. Although he and the Potions Master had never explicitly discussed their individual situations, intricate word plays had communicated their agreement clearly enough. As far as Draco was concerned, Snape had held up his part of the deal, considering that over the summer he had been informed of the staff's decision to name him Head Boy. There would have been no way that Dumbledore would have appointed a Death Eater for that position, even though the criterion was based on grades and Draco was by far the smartest boy in Seventh year.

As his thoughts reached full circle, he again found himself shuddering with cold terror. He couldn't bear to think of the role that he had undertaken, as the agent of a double agent with a secret agenda of his own. Sometimes he wondered if that moment of lucidity back in Fifth year had not actually been the final dip into insanity, tempting him to bite off more than he could chew. As of yet he had no way of knowing, but judging by the fact that he was still alive it was an indication that the decision couldn't have been all that bad.

He took a moment to compose his shattered mental mask, and reminded himself that he had had no choice but to fill in for his currently-imprisoned father. Naturally, he had never been forced to engage in such a dangerous gamble either, but unlike his father Draco was not blinded by the glamorous vision of the world advertised by the Dark Lord. There was something inherently foolish about trusting a man who had lacked a physical body for fourteen years and who was obsessed with the conquest of the world. Draco had taken a page out of the Muggles' book and had engaged in a little bit of contingency planning by playing this risqué game of deception. As a Malfoy, he knew better than to put all his eggs into one basket.

As a matter of fact, he had no intention of putting the majority of his figurative "eggs" into any one basket. The side of Harry Potter was in no way better than the side of the Dark Lord. While one tried to dominate the world through the suppression of basic human rights and freedoms, the other was simply more cunning and tried to trick the world into buying its version of liberality and equality while it operated the show from behind the scenes. During his many sleepless nights Draco often reasoned that perhaps his father had been right in choosing the Dark Lord over Dumbledore. At least with the former, one could expect open warfare and the threat of unimaginable torture hanging above one's head at the littlest mistake. With the latter, however, there were no accurate predictions to be made about the punishments that came with failure. In Draco's opinion advocates of equality and liberty were just as dangerous, if not more so than maniacal power-hungry tyrants. At least with the tyrant you always knew to expect insanity.

His cigarette extinguished, he took another look at his watch. It was time. He moved away from the wall, straightening his robes and brushing off invisible dust particles. A familiar cracking noise to his left indicated that his guest had arrived. Fixing his mask in place, Draco willed his mind empty of all thoughts and worries and felt the muscles in his face relax into a blank expression. Whomever Voldemort had sent, he or she was bound to be part of the same circle of elites. The Dark Lord might be a maniac, but he was not a fool. He knew that Draco was not his father and hence sought to account for the unpredictability of that fact.

Not once in the two years since he had joined The Cause had Draco been in the presence of a less-powerful associate. Voldemort was not giving him the chance to use his magical or persuasive powers to foil his plans in any way. It was sort of like having one's hands tied together without any bindings. Draco was perfectly aware that at his slightest wrong move the guillotine of consequence would fly down to sever his head from his body. He secretly hoped that he could come back as a ghost when it happened.

"Young Mr. Malfoy," the black-hooded figure hissed at him. Draco could feel the hair on his back rise in repulsion.

"Mulciber," he acknowledged with a nod of his head. The trick to this whole confrontation was keeping his calm and acting in the same manner that had him labelled by all of Hogwarts staff as a Magnificent Spoiled Bastard. He was perfectly aware that this visit was both a call to duty but also an inspection meant to reconfirm his personal loyalty and commitment to the Dark Lord. It had been quite a while since he had renewed their connection.

"Our Lord sends you greetings and hopes that all is finding you well," Mulciber grunted, the customary phrase spoken as greeting between all the sons of Voldemort.

"All is well my brother. I trust our Lord is also well," he uttered back the phrase, stifling the desire to throw up.

"He sends you a message," Mulciber began, not wasting any time with other formalities. The portkey was timed to take him back in seven minutes, before the wards of Hogwarts scanned the grounds for intruders again. It had taken the Dark Lord two years to finally discover how to trick the Security spells in order to contact his spies, and he still had not found a counter-spell against the Apparition Ban. Timed portkeys between Security scans were the best that he had come up with. Draco was thankful for his slow progress. "Severus Snape is not to be trusted any longer," Mulciber continued, drawing Draco's attention back to the issues at hand. "You are to watch him and report to our Lord if anything of significance takes place," the man before him instructed in his deep voice.

The message was short, sweet and to the point. The Dark Lord was not a man to waste words uselessly when there was important business to be done. This alerted Draco to the seriousness of the issue. Privately, he entertained an image of him flogging Severus Snape for allowing himself to raise suspicion. It wasn't just his snarky, greasy hide that was on the line should he be subjected to one of Lord Voldemort's favourite games of torture.

He felt his stomach constrict painfully and a wave of nausea washed over him. He was now to be the double agent of the double agent with his own secret agenda. He wondered briefly what crimes he had committed in his previous life to deserve reincarnation instead of eternal torture. He also wondered how he was going to save his life and the life of his mother now. He had withheld information about Snape's double agent nature ever since he was indicted into their ranks. Now he was asked to report on it. If he didn't report on it, and Snape did something very obvious against the Dark Lord then he too would fall under suspicion. If he reported on it, and Snape was punished for it, he would have all of Dumbledore's Army hunting for his head. Not to mention that the whole school would find out he was part of Voldemort's fan club. He would be expelled, and without the Hogwarts credentials he would truly be at the mercy of the Dark Lord, committing unspeakable acts against innocents as part of his lap dog routine. The guillotine above his head shuddered precariously. Draco suppressed a shiver as he struggled to regain his internal composure.

"You are shocked," Mulciber continued, misinterpreting his silence for surprise. Thank goodness for stupid servants. Stupid, but fiercely loyal and deeply deadly, Draco reminded himself silently, while pondering his next move. He ardently hoped that Mulciber would continue, giving him footing for an argument that would not expose his motives. "He was after all your long-time mentor and is your current Head of House," he continued.

There it was! The escape Draco had been waiting for. He jumped on it faster than a drowning man on an extended hand. "He might be suspecting me. And if he is the traitor that our Lord suspects he is…" he allowed the sentence to hang ominously in the air.

"Severus Snape was always a sneaky snake. Conniving with his forked tongue. Which is why the Dark Lord is sending you this warning, young Malfoy."

"My thanks to his Lordship," Draco muttered, displaying his best expression of worry and gratitude. "If Dumbledore were to suspect, the Ministry would seize all of the family fortune," he added. This situation needed to be exploited for all that it was worth.

"You must not give them reason to suspect you. The Dark Lord urges you to drop your contact to the brief minimum. Only if you have proof of his betrayal or in the case of an emergency are you to contact him," Mulciber stressed.

Inside, Draco was jumping for joy. He tried, as inconspicuously as possible to let out the breath that he had been holding. And then he went back to being the loyal servant. "But when our Lord calls, I must answer. My powers are needed to aid the cause," Draco insisted. All good servants were reluctant to leave their masters.

"He will send you special missive when he needs you," Mulciber informed him.

"Very well. My fireplace is monitored, however. And so is the Owlery, though I'm sure that letters from my own mother are not screened," Draco supplied. Excellent servants were always eager to help maintain contact with their masters when sent away.

"As Head Boy you have special privileges. You will know when you are needed."

"Very well," he acknowledged.

"The Dark Lord also requests more funds. And a safe house for Bellatrix Lestrange who has been sighted by the Aurors during a task."

Now, he had to fight hard not to grind his teeth. Naturally the bastard wanted more money. He had been expanding his operations as of late, leading Draco to believe that it wouldn't be long before open warfare would strike the Wizarding World. Both sides had taken two long years to prepare their attacks, and like hounds they were now waiting to tear the other to bits. Enough hate had accumulated on either side for the conflict to explode into violent bloodshed. He just hoped that in the midst of their anger they would forget him and his family.

As for Bellatrix, the bitch was too much into showing off her powers to be trusted with anything important. But because she panted according to the tune set by Voldemort's fanfare, he kept her around to lick the grind off his boots. He was always in need of a peanut gallery to "ooh" and "aah" at his every decision and display of power. And naturally it was the Malfoy name who had to bear the risk and brunt of the work required in protecting her. A waste of oxygen that woman was, and now he had to think of how to save her attention-loving hide.

"Very well. My mother can give our Lord access to the necessary money. It will look suspicious if I Apparate to Gringotts and transfer the necessary galleons out of my accounts. I've no doubt that Dumbledore is watching me like a hawk. My mother, however, will attract less attention. She is a notorious spendthrift," Draco decided in his best authoritative voice. When swimming with the sharks, you had to be a shark to avoid being eaten. "As for Bellatrix, my mother can smuggle her on a Muggle boat headed for France. From there she can catch a Muggle train to Switzerland. We have a chateau in the Alps that is Unplottable. She can wait there until this entire affair blows over," Draco decided.

Considering Bellatrix's knack for showing off and getting into trouble, the chateau in Switzerland was the most expendable of Malfoy property that they owned. The deed was strictly in his father's name, unlike the rest of the assets which he had shared with his mother. It was hence the least traceable to the remaining Malfoy family members. The Ministry would assume that since Lucius' capture, all of the assets strictly in his name were passed onto the Dark Lord, and not onto his existing family. It was a fair gamble given the odds against him.

"Very well. I shall inform our Lord," Mulciber grunted. "Farewell my brother."

"May your enemies be blind to your passing," Draco uttered the customary ending phrase, internally disgusted at the customs practiced by the Dark Lord's legions, and watched impassively as Mulciber disappeared back through the portkey.

Then, deep in thought, he lit another cigarette. Sleep was a long time coming that night.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The flame on the torch shivered, but did not extinguish. Light danced with shadow on the stone walls and was reflected dimly into the center of the room, where a cauldron boiled steadily over a small fire. On the workbench to the left of the cauldron various potion ingredients lay in meticulous order. The eyes of newt were piled up into a mini-pyramid, the beetle legs chopped finely into tiny rectangular pieces and the bats wings arranged in two rows of decreasing size. A bundle of freshly severed rat tails lay beside the bloody knife. They were next to be added into the broth.

The cauldron boiled quietly, multi-coloured bubbles breaching the surface and then popping, their resonance reminiscent of a fat man snoring on a forgotten divan. Somewhere in the distance a faucet dripped self-importantly and creatures scurried in the shadows, their small feet scratching rhythmically on the stone in a language that picked its translators carefully. The woman stirring the cauldron was unfazed by the ominous promises of harm that circled around her. She had long come to terms with the creatures whose habitat she had so decisively invaded. And in turn, they had felt her power and had kept their distance. It was a mutually beneficial relationship after all.

The loud, shrilling ding of the timer announced that it was time to stop stirring, and Ginny extracted the ladle from the broth, careful not to spill a single drop before she placed it on the worktable and consulted her watch. A few more minutes would need to pass before she could add the rest of the ingredients and then ten more minutes of stirring would allow her to test her latest invention. Underneath her makeshift workbench, the protesting squeak of her latest test subject diverted her attention. Grinning, Ginny crouched so that she could examine the perfect white ferret currently engaged in violently rattling the bars of his cage.

"I'll let you out of there soon enough," she muttered, and stuck a finger between two bars in an attempt to placate what was obviously a very frustrated animal.

The ferret, in all his pride glared at her through his small black-pearl eyes before chomping down on her finger with all his rodent might. Ginny laughed as she pulled her injured finger away. "I like you," she mussed, still grinning at the ferret. Not many of the animals she had used as her test subjects had dared oppose her whims, and she appreciated the animal's dislike of his situation. It showed character and spirit, two traits she had come to appreciate in all living beings, animal and human alike.

"Maybe after I'm done testing this potion on you I'll keep you. I could even give you a name, something like 'Vicious the Feisty Ferret'." The thought was amusing enough, though the animal certainly had no sense of humour as he continued onwards with his plight to escape his tiny cage. Ginny returned to her potion and her thoughts wandered as she continued adding the remaining ingredients. The process was mechanical by now, and her hands worked without the supervision of her brain. She had spent more than enough time with this particular potion recipe to worry about miscalculations.

It was her own makeshift broth, invented from a number of various recipes she had found in restricted books and she had been struggling to create a stable form of its antidote for the past month. The buyer that she had arranged the deal with in, Knockturn Alley, was expecting it next week, and Ginny, or rather her alias, did not have a reputation for late deliveries. Not to mention that her previous mistrials had strained her stock of materials and she was in desperate need for funds before she could restock. Ginny was in no mood to sell some of the rarer potions in her collection so she could afford further work on this recipe. It was now or never, and the idea of failure weighed annoyingly on her mind.

What should have been a simple invisibility potion had proved to be more complicated than she had previously anticipated. She had wanted to improve the potion's shelf life as well as time of operation and had thus tinkered with the base ingredients. The result had been a permanent invisibility potion with a shelf life of three months, far superior to any existing commercial models. However, to become visible again one had to ingest an antidote, and nothing Ginny had attempted to create was stable. Either it imploded upon skin contact, or only worked temporarily or not at all. Any way she looked at it, her attempts had been disastrous and she had spent many sleepless nights solving the intricate equations of base element combinations in order to solve the problems.

In the end, her trials had amounted to three permanently invisible ferrets that were running through the castle. Were she not worried about the delivery date and classes, Ginny perhaps would have bothered in finding a use for three invisible rodents. There were still those who had incurred her wrath in previous years and had yet to pay their dues. Her obstinate brother Ron was deserving of a scare given his recent behaviour towards her, but Ginny had learned long ago to live and let live when it came to her family. So her revenge on Ron could wait for a more appropriate time. It wasn't as if she was going to run out of chances soon. Every Weasley attended the mandatory Christmas dinner no matter where the winds of chance had landed him. She had but to wait for the chance to enact her revenge. Ginny had become rather refined in the art of waiting.

An eerie grin twisted her lips as she checked the time again and started to add the remaining materials to the potion. Caught in the meticulous repetition of the task, Ginny's thoughts drifted again, transporting her away from her current physical time and place, onto the planes of memory where she relived her first encounters with betrayal and revenge. He had taught her about betrayal and also about revenge, had shown her the circularity of all actions: how betrayal lead to revenge and revenge in turn lead to more betrayal. It had been a riveting lesson, and she a most astute pupil, but it wasn't until he betrayed her that she understood the finer implications of his teachings.

_It always hurts the most when those whom you suspect the least betray you or take revenge on you_, he had told her though the cursive, vine-like script which had grown roots inside Ginny's heart and mind and later in her soul. She hadn't believed him, for back then, idealism still coursed through her blood. She loved him, and he loved her, and in their system of equations there was no room for betrayal. Young and in love, she had believed herself to be invincible, untouchable, protected by the words with which he had spelled her into obedience. But for once he hadn't been lying, and he had not shown any remorse in betraying their agreement and taking her life for his own. He had shown her how meaningless she was to him, how utterly inconsequential her existence. In his grand scheme she was but a peon, a stepping stone, expendable, and necessary only so far as it helped him complete the first step. Then she was to be discarded, thrown away like something vile and disgusting, never to be remembered and mentioned again.

But it hadn't worked that way. His plans had failed and she had been the one to go on, while he had been destroyed by a twelve year old boy with bright green eyes and more courage than a grown man. Sometimes Ginny wished that it had been she whom Harry had destroyed, because then she wouldn't have had to deal with it, the contrary feelings of hate and love, betrayal and revenge, understanding and confusion that welled up inside her. On her better days the contradictions were just a muted howl deep inside her heart; on the bad, they threatened to tear her apart with the paradox of their simultaneous existence.

Whenever she remembered to, Ginny hated herself for understanding his reasoning, his motives and for agreeing with them. She hated the knowledge that she could explain her own expendability on the basis of her emotions, that she could justify his behaviour given the fact that she had been his victim. She didn't want to be able to critique her own mistakes and her unhealthy credulity and dependency on his teachings. Other times, she did not understand how she could have loved such a monster, how she could have betrayed the expectations of her family and friends the way she had. But those moments of self-hate were rarer now, and the shame had faded away as she understood and agreed with his motives more and more.

Ginny suspected that it was a subconscious reaction to the fact that everyone else expected her to be ashamed and repentant. It was a rebellion against the norm which was good and pure and made no allowances for her brushes with evil. Everyone had expected her not to be affected by it, to just get up, wipe herself off and continue on with her sweet disposition. Nobody understood that blood stained, and not even years of pep-talks and therapy at the hands of her mother would bring back the girl that Tom had successfully erased out of existence.

Not that Ginny pitied her own destruction. On the contrary, she was grateful for it. Eleven might be considered by her mother too young to fall in love, but the past could seldom be changed. She had loved him and he had not loved her back. He had betrayed her and she had survived to tell of that betrayal. What she had become in the wake of those events was evident only to a well-trained eye, for she had struggled very hard to hide the changes to her character. Amidst her family's insistence that Nothing Had Happened and that she was Still Their Little Girl, Ginny had taken the time to reflect upon the reality of her encounter, draw her own conclusions and decide how she had changed because of it.

The world wanted her to be ashamed of her feelings and to hide the remnants of his effects on her through denial. Ginny had found out the hard way that she could feel no shame for having learned magic from him, or for having loved him. He was as much a part of her as her mother, father and brothers, and denying him would be like denying a part of her own soul. If she was not allowed to believe in her emotions or her magic, then what was she supposed to believe in? Tradition and society were nothing without personal conviction and cooperation. One had to believe in the social order in order to uphold it, and Ginny had found that her conviction as of late had faltered. She didn't care about the wishes of a world who trudged on with horse-blinders and who lied to its members and most importantly to itself. But tradition was hard to change, and it would take more than her lifetime to make a difference.

She had thus resigned against the fact, and had stopped struggling against her family's efforts of pretending that Nothing Had Happened and that she was Still Their Little Girl. They were living their own denial, that suited them just fine, and Ginny had stopped being angered by their hypocrisy. She had taken out her frustration by smoking the cigarettes her mother deemed crass and un-lady-like indoors. Her father had then invited her out on the patio in his calm and quiet voice that turned her dull resentment into anger. Nobody ever mentioned why Ginny had taken up such a disgusting habit. Her mother would tut and her father would glance at her disapprovingly, but they would never acknowledge the motives behind their daughter's rebellion. As long as she was Still Their Little Girl, Nothing Had Happened, and all was right with the world.

By the time she surfaced from her thoughts, the workbench was empty, all the materials having been added to the mixture, and Ginny was aware of the fact that she was scowling. It was the fault of her wandering thoughts, and as she reset the timer and continued stirring at a constant pace she reminded herself that this would be her final year at home, under the vigil of her parents. Then she would be free to follow on her true path and nobody would stop her. Excitement still coursed through her when she thought back to how easily she had convinced both her parents and Headmaster Dumbledore that she was fit to take the NEWTs a year early in order to apply as an apprentice for the Coven of the Healing Arts. None of them had protested and all had commended her on her sensibility to apply her talents so selflessly.

Their encouragement and eagerness did not fool her, however. Dumbledore and her parents both wanted a healer they could trust to patch up the Order's members in the upcoming war. The Coven of the Healing Arts was renowned for the power of its healers. She would be a trump card, an asset to the Side of Light in the War Against Darkness. Since her entire family were members of the Order, her loyalties were unquestioned. They all knew that they could rely on her in their time of need. It amused Ginny that they had never thought to ask her what she thought of Their Stupid War, or if she wanted to participate. But it didn't matter. She would extricate herself from the entire mess soon. A few more months in their company was all she had to bear before she could lose herself in the world forever.

A sly smirk adorned her features as her hands moved on their own. The trap was set, and not even a Slytherin could smell its machinations. She congratulated herself on a job well done as she reset the timer and continued stirring at a constant pace. It was almost time for class, she noted when starring at her wristwatch and she had spent another night nearly fully awake. Tiredness eluded her, but seeing how she was going to completely miss breakfast because of the potion she considered taking an Energizing potion. Advanced Level Potions with Professor Snape was her first class of the day, and Ginny did not fancy losing house points for being an incompetent potions brewer, especially when the reality was far from it. As the only Sixth Year in the class she had to prove early on that she deserved her place and so extra care was required with her assignments.

As she allowed the finished mixture cool, Ginny browsed her potion shelves for the Energizing potion. She could feel the stiffness from half a night of brewing accumulated in her back muscles, and a yawn threatened to break her jaw in two. She hoped for all intents and purposes the antidote was successful and her night had not been wasted yet again for nothing. With the Energizing potion in her hand, Ginny surveyed her private sanctuary with a critical eye before leaving for her class. There would be plenty of time to clean up and test the potion that evening after dinner.

It was too late for breakfast, and Ginny's stomach growled regretfully as she discreetly exited the second floor girl's bathroom and hurried along to the dungeons. The hallways were scattered with students heading to class, but Ginny paid them no mind, focused on creating a mental list of her day. Potions was followed by Transfiguration, which meant that Lunch was hours away. Impassive to the warm September sun filtering through the arched windows, Ginny berated herself for not nicking some day-old pastries from the kitchens the previous night. The Energizing potion would not help her hunger and she would be distracted throughout the better half of Transfiguration because of it. She sighed, making a mental note to do that for next time before hurrying down the dark hallway into the Slytherin dungeons.

The first thing she noticed, as she entered the classroom was that Snape had not yet emerged from his office, to which she allowed a silent release of the breath that she had been holding. The second was yelling.

"You take that back right now Malfoy! Or I'll make you sorry for ever having saying it!" Ron was screaming, red-faced at an amused Draco Malfoy.

"It is only the truth, Weasley," Malfoy was saying, his voice cool and composed. "it isn't as though you make a secret of it. The only reason why your mother had the horde of you was because she was hoping that perhaps one of you would have the decency to realise the worth of money and support her in her old age. She had so many because each one of you boys proved from an early age to be a horrendous disappointment and a wastrel. She kept on hoping for brilliance but all she got stuck with was seven faulty Dungbombs. Frankly, I'm surprised she had the sense to stop when she did," he scoffed self-importantly.

From where she was standing, Ginny could see Ron sputter something absolutely incoherent, and then his face screwed up in a rage. Malfoy's words had pushed him past the point of no return and not even Harry or Hermione dared interfere and save him from what would undoubtedly be a month's detention and house points lost. Malfoy had done it this time, Ginny grinned under her breath. Being Ron's sister, she was allowed to interfere without fear of having her head bitten off. She supposed she had better go save Ron before he did something stupid. And redeem that silly excuse of family honour in the meantime. After all, thirty pairs of eyes expected it, and an audience should never be disappointed.

"Really Malfoy, your theory is most interesting," she intervened just as Ron was about to hex the silly little smug off his immaculate face. For a moment both boys were confused, and Ginny took advantage of the temporary pause of flaming tempers to make her way up to the aisle to the front of the classroom, where the daily scheduled fight between The Golden Trio and Draco Malfoy was taking place, for the delight of its audience. "Perhaps if my mother wanted brilliance, she would have raised a son such as yourself," she continued, stepping between the two boys, her eyes locking with Malfoy's.

"Ginny, what are you doing? Get out of my way and let me hex the lips off this smarmy git's face!" Ron whined behind her, but Ginny ignored him. This argument was the perfect way to put her plan in motion. Today was truly turning out to be a good day. She barely resisted the urge to rub her hands together in childish glee.

"She could never achieve such perfection, Weaselette," Malfoy spat, his upper lip quavering in utter disgust at her presence.

"If by perfection you mean a narcissistic, selfish, spoiled, drama-queen Death Eater wanna-be, then I'm sure my mother can not be faulted for her imperfections," she commented in the most nonchalant, off-handed voice she could muster.

The class released a collective 'ooh', and Ginny allowed herself a cursory perusal of the audience and Malfoy. The class was hanging onto every word that was emerging from their mouths, while Malfoy appeared to be utterly flabbergasted. Could it be because she had finally uttered the words that nobody had dared say to him in two years? Or was it the breaching of the one taboo subject at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Death Eaters? To Ginny, it was an equivalent form of denial as that practiced by her parents. Hypocrisy seemed to follow her everywhere.

"No, I'm sure she can not. After all, she had you," Malfoy mustered after a few seconds of silence. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he was livid with fury. Ginny wondered briefly if he would not resort to using his wand as his brother had been just about to.

"You leave my sister out of this!" Ron intervened pathetically from behind her back, but both Ginny and Malfoy ignored him. The last exchange had personalized the fight, and Malfoy's attention had been successfully diverted from Ron onto herself. Ginny congratulated herself for the smooth save.

"Shut up Weasley," Malfoy sneered, his withering gaze still locked with hers. "As I was about to explain, your mother's failure, both morally and materially gave birth to you, Weaselette, a demon spawned and raised in the crassest of poverty with absolutely no moral character and conviction. Why, I'm sure that for a warm meal and some pass-me-downs you would be anyone's half-hour of pleasure." The savage smirk that morphed his aristocratic features into those of a devil was wanton with the hunger for her imminent outburst. He was clever, Ginny hat to admit and admire the methodical way with which he stalked his prey. To someone like her brother, his blow would be an invitation to explode most savagely in an attempt to defend his honour. Malfoy had aimed low enough to make sure of that, but she saw right through him and refused to rise up to the challenge. She had had practice with poisoned words way before he came along to torment her. In the face of her past, this was an amateurish attempt to make her miserable and angry.

"Well, I guess I should aim to compensate my mother for all my shortcomings and offer her the perfect son then, don't you think? Oh, I believe it would make her ecstatic! It would be an early Christmas gift that would tickle her pink!" Ginny gushed, with the perfect intonation of an excited teenager.

In the seconds that it took for Malfoy's expression to change from predatory to awfully confused, Ginny's wand was in her hands and she had moved from blocking his view of Ron to standing at his side, her wand poking into the milky skin of his neck. "What do you say, Malfoy. My mother deserves a reward for all her hard… labour," she purred dangerously. "I think that you will do, absolutely nicely as her perfect son," and without further ado, the Morphing Glamour charm she had invented rolled from her lips and she watched with satisfaction as Draco's light blonde hair turned flaming red, his immaculate pale skin turned pink and became covered with freckles and his stormy grey eyes turned a rich brown.

There was a shocked pause before the entire class burst into pearls of laughter, and Ginny glanced at her brother to see him stare in shock and Draco Malfoy's new do. Then he too broke into a wide grin and hooted approvingly at Ginny. Malfoy, meanwhile seemed to be still in shock.

"Way to go Ginny!" someone in the class shouted, and it vaguely sounded like Harry. She smiled, looking over her spell work with a pleased eye when the first round of applause from the Gryffindor side of the room erupted, and before she knew it she was getting a standing ovation. Ron, Hermione and Harry circled her and hugged her with bright faces, commending her on her wit, but Ginny barely heard their comments, nodded only in acknowledgement as she planned her next move while surveying the classroom.

The Gryffindors were laughing and cheering, while the Slytherins looked mortified, though some were smirking back at her appreciatively, and Malfoy's new complexion betrayed his utter embarrassment and humiliation. Before she could sit down, however, Snape's voice bellowed out of nowhere, shocking the class back into silence.

"What, is the meaning of all of this!" he growled, with quick steps and billowing robes making his way to the front of his classroom. Ginny winced and Malfoy paled while everyone else scurried quickly to their seats. "Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Weasley? Do you have an explanation as to why you are wasting my precious class time feuding?"

"Sir, I was attacked unfairly by this…." Malfoy paused with a meaningful sneer. "girl, who then proceeded to change my appearance in this manner. I am innocent, I assure you."

"He only got what he deserved," Ginny muttered under her breath, gaze firmly planted in the stone ground of the classroom.

Snape drew in an angry breath, and then exhaled loudly. When Ginny dared a glance at him, she could see the right corner of his mouth struggling to twitch up against its master's wish. He too seemed amused by her prank. "I heard very clearly the argument that trespassed in this classroom. Mr. Malfoy, you will refrain from making such comments ever again or I assure you detention with Filch will be the last of your worries. Ms. Weasley, your future temper tantrums will be dealt with peacefully, without unnecessary hexing. As for the rest of you, you should be studying if you wish to pass your NEWTs, not encouraging this kind of inappropriate behaviour!" he snarled, and having finished his monologue turned to the blackboard, where a list of potions ingredients began to write itself in earnest. Ginny and Malfoy quickly scurried to take their seats, thankful to escape his wrath so easily.

It wasn't long after she had taken out her quill and parchment and was copying down the ingredients and instructions that Malfoy's voice was heard again. "Professor," he interrupted the deadly silence that had settled over the class in a most stoic voice.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

"You didn't make her end the spell," he pointed out most politely.

This time, Snape allowed himself a most serpent-like grin, and Ginny fought hard to stifle her laughter. "Why, your new look suits you just fine Mr. Malfoy. It isn't up to me to dictate how you change your appearance as long as you are still in uniform."

"But, Professor!" Malfoy exclaimed, cheeks red from rage and embarrassment.

"Don't you 'but Professor' me, Mr. Malfoy. It is not my place to interfere in your argument with Ms. Weasley. You can take it up with her, in person, at break to remove the spell from your person. Now one more peep out of you and you will be brewing this potion with Ms. Weasley. I am certain you do not wish to leave Mr. Zabini working all on his own," Snape replied with a sneer, and resumed his angry pacing.

Ginny watched as Malfoy's face turned three shades of red before it resumed its usual air of indifference. With an affronted scoff he returned to his parchment, and Ginny diverted her attention to hers. Soon, she would be in possession of the first half of her plan. Malfoy's vanity assured her of it.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

He had bolted for the washroom located on the ground floor as soon as Potions class had come to a close, unheeding the cries of his friends and his Professor. In the halls, ignorant students had snickered at him, and yet he had not paused to give them the detentions they so rightfully deserved. He had been in too much of a hurry to see with his own eyes what she had done to his appearance. The hazy image his potions cauldron had shown him had been devoid of detail. He had only managed to see the freckles that graced the rosy skin of his forearms and had spent the hour mentally climbing the stone walls of the classroom as time mocked his burning apprehension.

The full picture was not much more encouraging when he stared into the mirror. In fact, it was scores more depressing than he had originally thought. Not only had she changed his pallid skin tone to match her pinkish tinge, but she had given him the famous Weasley hair and eyes along with the scores of plebeian freckles that distinguished her family in any setting. He looked positively wretched! Who would have imagined, his distinguished Malfoy characteristics underlining the blatantly recessive Weasley genetics!

Draco sighed and tried a _Finite Incantatem_ on his appearance. When the same piercingly brown eyes and chin-long red hair continued to stare at him out of the mirror, he scrunched his freckled nose and swore profusely. It was just like the Weasley bint to put him under a spell that he could not remove on his own. Knowing the foolish Gryffindor sense of right and wrong he would have to make some horribly public apology to her entire clan before she rid him of this most shameful case of bad hair, bad eyes, bad skin and overall bad appearance day.

Putting on his best sneer, Draco tried to snort at the mirror. The resulting catastrophe caused desperation to settle into his altered facial features. His snort looked rather like a cross between a gorilla and a hippogriff and made him look about as intelligent as a donkey chewing on a walnut. It seemed as though his ferocity and ability to instil fear in others had taken a vacation along with his good looks and now all he was left with was a permanently idiotic stare and an ability to display his emotions to the entire world.

His cheeks tinged up in anger, and before he could control it, his entire face had gone red, each light-brown freckle becoming more and more pronounced as his anger intensified. It was all the fault of the Weaselette and her two scantly whispered words that had rendered his two most favourite tools for torturing others useless. Draco was honest enough with himself to admit that as a Malfoy with Weasley features he would look positively ridiculous attempting to either snort or sneer. It was a commonly known fact that Weasleys were not capable of such dignified expressions and communicated their preferences through moronic stares and vibrant blushes, two vices which, he too had subcontracted as a result of the Weaselette's prank.

"Oh she might believe she's funny and witty now, but she, has another thing coming for her," Draco glowered at his reflection, crossing his arms on his chest and examining how utterly ridiculous it looked, now that the face staring back at him was unfamiliar.

He didn't look like that normally, did he? His reflection mirrored his uncertain grimace and Draco hurried out of the washroom before more crazy ideas had time to lodge themselves in his head. He was already twenty minutes late for Transfiguration, and he didn't quite fancy the riot he was going to encounter when he entered McGonagall's classroom late _and_ looking like a Weasley. She was undoubtedly still miffed about the fact that Potter hadn't made Head Boy and would not hesitate to express her dissatisfaction by giving him detention. Given all that had happened that morning, Draco did not fancy ending the day by performing unpaid slave labour for Filch.

Without another thought, he turned around and headed for the entrance hall, deciding to forgo his prior decision to attend the Transfiguration lecture. One push of the heavy oaken doors and he found himself bathed in the sunlight of the September sun. Scowling at the senselessly jovial weather, Draco made his way towards the lake. The grounds were eerily quiet in the late morning, and he could feel the silence permeate every step he took on the green grass. It made him feel disconnected from his body, almost as if he were floating high somewhere where the world could not touch him or reprimand him for his actions. He wondered briefly if ghosts felt this liberated from responsibilities when they decided to return to the mortal plane.

Stifling a sigh, he sat down by the edge of the water, and allowed the lapping of the tiny waves against the shore to soothe the heaviness inside his stomach. He smiled at the stillness around him, stretched with a crack of his back, and let himself fall back unto the cool blades of grass, eyes closed and ears open for errant sounds of activity. Pansy found him there an hour later, as only he knew she could. He was still stretched out in the tall grass and his body was half in the sun and half in the shade of the tall poplar tree that oversaw the lake. His brown eyes remained glued to the stridently cerulean sky even when her noisy footsteps alerted him of her presence. Draco didn't bother to acknowledge her as she sat down beside him and wordlessly glared down at him.

"You know, I had to lie to McGonagall and tell her that you skived off Transfig today because you had the stomach flu," she threw in his direction, voice full of chastisement and reproach.

Draco didn't bother to respond to her provocation. He had spent the hour lying in the sun, feeling how the shadow of the tree moved over his body like a silent blanket and watching how the cotton-clouds endlessly perused the sky. Presently, he was feeling mildly numb and half-conscious from the warmth that coiled through his body like a giant dormant snake. It was a strangely satisfying feeling that left him devoid of any thought or desire and separated him from everything that was worldly and mundane.

"Well? Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" Pansy prompted in an affronted tone. She had never taken well to his silences.

"I can always count on you, Pans," Draco spoke, and it seemed almost like a superhuman effort to make his lead-like tongue move in his mouth.

Beside him, the girl snorted, reminding him of his current handicap. He suppressed the groan that threatened to spill from his lips and focused his attention on the noon sky. It had lost its magic.

"You really are a drama queen, Draco. I can't believe you, skiving off Transfiguration just because Weasley decided to give you a makeover." As his best friend, Pansy was the only one allowed to speak this way to Draco, and even so, only when they were in private. After having known him for all her life, she was the only Slytherin that could match him in temper and wit. Most times she offered him her support and served to increase his power over the other Slytherins. When she challenged him, however, Draco had learned it was never without good reason, and he had come to appreciate her critical input and analysis.

"I did no such thing," he protested with a scoff.

"You can't lie to me, Malfoy," she hissed, and suddenly her frowning face was blocking his view. "I saw the way you ran out of Potions, like you were being chased by a horde of Ogres."

"You're blocking my view, Parkinson," he growled back, in a similar tone. "And for your information, I skived Transfig in order to plan my revenge on the Weaselette. She is going to pay for humiliating me."

"Oh, I'm sure," Pansy scoffed, moving her face away and allowing Draco's sight to be once again invaded by the image of the crystalline blue sky.

"Do you doubt me?" he asked, surprised at her outburst. The Slytherin in Pansy was always more than glad to help with a scheme to humiliate a Gryffindor.

"I think you should just apologise to her and have her take off the spell. We don't need you embarrassing yourself any more than you already have."

This time, the comment made Draco sit up and face Pansy, a scowl marring his mangled features. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, Parkinson?" he hissed. _Pansy is your friend, you cannot harm her_, Draco reminded himself as he inhaled loudly through his freckled nostrils.

Although he would have wanted nothing more than to watch Pansy's face turn a satisfying shade of purple as he throttled her silly, he had enough presence of spirit to ball his hands into fists and sit on them patiently as Pansy delivered her repartee. Mentally, he reviewed the long list of reasons why he couldn't kill her, and reached the conclusion that the three most prominent arguments against harming her were that she had been his friend from birth, she had gotten him out of more tiffs than he cared to count and she was his only ally in Slytherin house. All that being said, Draco still envisioned slapping her silly a few times just for making the suggestion that he should apologise. And to a Weasley of all people!

"It means, _Malfoy_," Pansy ground her teeth as she spoke, "that if you were to talk that way about _my_ mother or make similar insinuations about me I would not have hesitated to hex your bollocks off your body permanently."

"Well, then, it's a good thing I wasn't talking to you," Draco huffed.

"You're a pureblood Draco," Pansy tried again. "You have breeding, and principle and _class_, for heaven's sake!" she exclaimed. "The way you acted today was utterly silly and undignified of your position, hence embarrassing. You do not need to stoop to such crass insults in order to make your point. I was ashamed of how you behaved and I think that your punishment is only fitting!"

He couldn't help it that his mouth dropped open in shock. After all, it wasn't everyday that Pansy berated him for his behaviour. If truth be told, he hadn't been chastised for his manners since he had been five years old. To have Pansy do it now, at seventeen was infinitely more humiliating. He felt his cheeks flush in anger and embarrassment and before he knew it his entire face was aflame, sprouting yet another wave of shame. As a Malfoy he was supposed to have better control of his emotions!

"I cannot believe you just did that, Pans," Draco sighed once the urge to do her harm had subsided, and let himself fall down in the grass, resuming his previous posture. "You did not just chastise me for calling the Weaslette a whore and for making fun of her mother. God, what has happened to your sense of… Slytherin pride, woman?"

"I've had quite enough of it, if you must know. And all this childish feuding between the Malfoys and the Weasleys is just as stupid as the notion of House Pride, Draco. And I know that you are above it. To see you sink to such a crude level makes me believe that there is no hope for Slytherin house after all. If _you_ can't rise above it, then there can be no hope for Blaise or Millicent, or Theodore or Vincent or even Gregory, not to mention the rest of the younger ones. I might as well start carving out headstones for each and every one of you, not to mention for myself."

Pansy's tone was hushed, but Draco could discern the underlying hysteria behind it. He propped himself up on his elbows and shot her back a quizzical look but she didn't turn around. Her black locks of hair were tied in a messy ponytail, which told Draco that she had, at some point that morning, snogged Blaise in one of the many alcoves of Hogwarts. Her shoulders however, were slumped dejectedly at odd angles, and her head hung low between them as her hands worked nervously to prick the blades of grass from the lawn.

"What happened, Pans?" Draco asked softly. It was obvious that her outburst held deeper undertones, as her monologue had pointed out. He supposed he could have hugged her forlorn form and made her feel better about whatever was troubling her, but Draco wasn't in a forgiving mood just yet. He had received an unjustified scolding and he wasn't in a disposition to let the resentment go already.

"Blaise received his first Summon," she whispered not mincing her words, but not looking at him either.

The news hit Draco like a pile of bricks, and he gaped for air as he steadied his body to a sitting position that matched Pansy's. The nefarious cloud at the back of his head that was the War thundered and shook, moving imminently closer and closer. Draco's sense of inescapability caused bile to rise up from his stomach and he inhaled deeply, trying to still the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. It wouldn't be long now, before there would be full-blown war. If the children of the current Death Eaters had started to receive Summons, it meant that the Dark Lord was close to readying his army. He would be on the offensive soon.

"Pans…" Draco started, not exactly knowing what to say to such devastating news.

"Don't Draco. You don't need to say anything. I know full well what it means," she replied tersely.

"There is still time. The ritual requires three Summons before he takes the Mark. Has he replied yet?"

Pansy shook her head. "No, he hasn't had time. It came with his breakfast mail."

Draco nodded in understanding. The others would have undoubtedly received Summons too, or if not yet, then they would be receiving them soon. As far as he knew, he was the only son of a Death Eater that had been forced into taking the Mark early. His father's position and subsequent incarceration had required it, and Draco's say in the matter had been nonexistent. His Summons had come within a day of each other, and by the end of the week he had been nursing both an open wound and his guilty conscience into convalescence.

"It just isn't fair," Pansy continued before he had the chance to voice his next thought. "We're just children Draco. As much as we make a big deal out of this House Rivalry bullshit, none of us could imagine killing a classmate. Not even a Gryffindor, and they are our fiercest rivals."

"Nobody said that life was fair Pansy."

"Well someone should say it! If I'm seventeen years old and I've already lost whatever faith I had in fairness and unhampered outcome, then what is the point of my existence? What is the point of my struggling to survive this massive exercise in stupidity if the rest of my life is going to continue much in the same way?" He could hear her desperation in the way she bit on the ends of her syllables, almost as if she wanted to tear every word that escaped her lips to pieces in order to prove the ferocity of her convictions.

"What are you getting at, Pansy?" he asked, confused about the direction of her logic.

"What I'm getting at, Draco, is that we are children, and children should be allowed their idealism. Life is going to have a million opportunities to prove me wrong as I age. I should not be caught in the power-hungry struggle of two old, mad coots! And neither should my boyfriend, or any other student at this blasted school for witchcraft and wizardry. We come here to learn and enlarge our minds, not to have our innocence and childhood butchered by their machinations!"

He couldn't help the laughter that bubbled from his lips. She never ceased to amaze him with the strength of her spirit. It was probably why they were such good friends in the first place. Neither of them fit the traditional mould of the slimy, underhanded Slytherin, and at times seemed to directly rebel against it by indulging their inner, hidden Gryffindor. The question of their butchered childhoods had been one that they had pondered together many times before, in the silent and murky depths of his rooms at the Manor, or in her sunny drawing room at her father's house. Both of them had agreed that they harboured dislike towards their respective situations, but Draco had never heard Pansy speak so forwardly against the war. It was relieving, in a humorous way, that there existed someone who cared enough to become outraged by the direction of their pending future. Draco had long consoled his rage with the idea that his situation was dead-ended and hence inescapable. In some ways, not having had another choice had made it easier for Draco to bear the guilt that came with the repercussions.

"It's the milestone of our life, this war. We measure everything by it," he noted sombrely, shaking his head. "And you're right, it is disgusting. We are just kindling for a fire that is waiting to consume our entire world, but what can you do about it? Technically we are no longer the children you insist so much that we are. And as young adults, it is our responsibility to choose the side we sympathise with the most and support it so that we may shape this world in our egoistical image of right."

"They're wrong, the both of them! Together, they're the pot and the kettle and I don't want to pick either. I also loathe the idea that in the end, I'm going to be forced to pick. And I don't want Blaise to pick either, or… or anyone else that I know for that matter. Nobody should pick. That way they can just battle it out themselves and leave us, the rest of the world out of their petty rivalries!" she exclaimed hotly, her voice rising above the hushed whisper of before.

Startled, Draco drew his head upwards and scanned the grounds for any witnesses to their conversation. Indistinct figures moved across the distant horizon and he relaxed slightly. They were out of hearing distance for now. "Pansy, will you keep it down? We don't need to inform the entire world of the fact that Death Eaters are being recruited from the Slytherin ranks!" he hissed at her poisonously.

"I. Don't. Care," she punctuated with a defiant glare, cold fire burning in the depths of her eyes.

"Look, Pansy, I know that you don't want to join the war. I understand how you feel about it, and believe me I feel the same way. But trust me when I tell you that the alternative would be much worse. Keeping out of this war is a luxury that our generation does not have. You think you know the Dark Lord, but until you've faced him in the eye and had him hiss at you across the table you don't know anything. He's the stuff of nightmares, Pansy. And you can't even begin to imagine the ways he can decimate you for your choice to remain neutral."

"You don't understand, Draco!" she exclaimed passionately. "My choice is inconsequential at this moment. If Blaise joins them, I might have as well joined them!"

"So then convince him not to join! Give him something better to fight for! Something more precious than an alliance with a madman," Draco sighed in exasperation. It was always the same dead end, the same non-choice. He was tired of it.

"There is nothing that I can give him, Draco. I can't make him change his mind," her voice was barely a whisper, and he could see tears brimming in her eyes as she looked away from him. They sat in silence for a few moments, before Pansy spoke again, "He thinks he's doing it for me. That by joining them he's protecting me, that he's securing a future for us where we can… live. He refuses to understand that life as a serf is no life! I'd rather be dead than sing after the Dark Lord's tune!"

He couldn't help but scoff at her words. Pansy might not be a conventional Slytherin, but neither was she a Gryffindor. Should the time come, she would grind her teeth and squeeze shut her eyes rather than face the prospect of her death. The motto of his house was self preservation. It was ingrained in their bones, just as foolish bravery was ingrained in those of their fellow Gryffindors. There was no escape from it.

"Pansy, stop your melodrama. You know very well that you would live as a servant of the Dark Lord if you had to choose between that and death. And while I understand that you feel the need to exaggerate for the sake of convincing me to attempt to persuade Blaise into not taking the Mark, I'm afraid my sympathies haven't been aroused even by your passionate monologue," he snorted, staring at the shimmering lake before him.

"You know me too well, Draco," Pansy's tone was appreciative if not somewhat dejected.

"Of course I know you well! We share a bloody birthday and we have only been friends since we were in swaddling clothes! Goodness Pansy, you'd think that after all these years you would dare come up to me in honesty instead of subterfuge! I don't need you too to be pretending. I get enough falsity wherever I turn! I don't need it from my best friend as well!" he was being loud, he knew, and his anger was irrational, but it felt good to let himself be angry even though it was at the wrong person and for the wrong reasons. It was a reminder to himself that he was still human, that he could still feel and hadn't yet turned into a chunk of uncaring ice.

"Sorry," came the mumbled apology, but he found no appreciation in his heart for its elegant sincerity.

"And before you think to ask again, no, I cannot talk to Blaise. And no, it's not because I don't want to, but because I cannot compromise my position in Slytherin house more than I have already. The Dark Lord is watching my every action even more closely than before since I haven't been attending his meetings. I cannot look like I am anything else but a Death Eater sympathiser, or else it will be the end of the Malfoy line. And trust me when I tell you, it won't be a pretty and quick end."

"So is that it? Every man for himself?" Pansy sneered at him, her eyes hard and full of contempt. He had seen that look before, but never directed at him. It made Draco feel very small and petty indeed. "What happened to friendship? And honour? And duty? What happened to the loyalty you profess you have, _Malfoy_?" she hissed poisonously.

"Parkinson, the emotional stress of this affair has made you stupid," he didn't bother to check his words. She had made him angry for the second time in less than an hour by insinuating he wasn't worthy of their friendship, and was thus deserving of his wrath. "I said that _I_ couldn't help you. I didn't say that there wasn't any help _for _you, you silly bint. Just because I am tied at the hands, that doesn't mean I can't point you in the right direction," he told her.

"Well? Are you going to make me beg for it, or are you finally going to impart upon me this most important piece of information?" her lips twisted in a wry grin when she voiced her question.

"I'm considering having you down on your knees and begging," Draco responded with a smirk. Banter he could do, if it meant she didn't have to stare at him that way.

"Keep dreaming Malfoy. Slytherins don't beg, or get down on their knees."

"Well, Blaise might convince you to reconsider that last statement," he replied with an evil smirk, and was rewarded by Pansy's rosy blush of embarrassment.

The silence that followed was only slightly awkward as Draco made a disgruntled mental note never to tease Pansy about anything with any remote sexual undertone lest he might accidentally stumble upon other details of his friend's sex life that He Was Better Off Not Knowing. It was their only unspoken rule: that they did not discuss the privates of their sex lives. As far as Draco was concerned, Pansy had been dating Blaise since the Halloween Ball in their Sixth year, and the two seemed very much in love. So much, that he had had to put up with Pansy's lovesick rants for half the summer while Blaise was travelling with his family in Italy. They made a very credible couple, with Blaise always the attentive boyfriend and Pansy the doting girlfriend. Draco wondered if their romance was just for show or if this was the transformation one underwent when love took him under its wing. He didn't like to think about the issue too much, always reminding himself that sometime in the future, if he survived the war, he will have more than enough time to come to his own conclusions.

"I think you should talk to Potter," Draco finally spoke.

"What?" Pansy shrieked and jumped half out of her seat on the grass. "You want me to talk to Potter?" she repeated more calmly as she rearranged herself in a more comfortable position.

"If anyone is going to find a way for Blaise not to join the Death Eaters, it's Potter. He's the dedicated hero type, always welcoming the quest to save souls and all," he explained.

"Potter? You have gone out of your head Draco. I surely cannot go to Potter. He is going to laugh at me and then AK me for sure. Not to mention that Blaise will not want to talk to Potter. He absolutely despises him," Pansy protested.

Draco growled, annoyed. "Weren't you the one that was just giving me the talk about pointless House Rivalry a while ago? Don't be such a hypocrite and don't get your panties in a knot just because you have to talk to Potter. He doesn't bite you know, and like I said, he'd be more than happy to save your Slytherin arses. It'll be a pride trek for him, and a boost to his ego, but at least you and Blaise will be safe and away from the Dark Lord's clutches." _Not to mention_, he added silently, _that you defecting will send a silent message among the others that a choice is available, however unapparent, and that there are those among them that have the strength to make it._

"Wouldn't that be choosing, though?" Pansy's air was pensive.

"Of course it would be choosing!" he exploded with an angry puff. "I thought I made it clear to you that there is no way you can get out of this without choosing! But unlike the rest of our sordid house, you would be choosing the _winning_ side. And hence you will get a chance to live your life the way you want to afterwards."

"How can you be so sure that Potter's side will be the winning side, Draco?"

"Because," he huffed, and his tone assumed a superior air as though he was talking to a five year old. "The world won't let the Dark Lord win. He will be overpowered in the end, even if he believes himself to be the strongest wizard alive, or reincarnated, or whatever the hell he is."

"You can't be sure of that. The odds are for him at this point," Pansy protested.

Draco laughed. "Of course the odds are for him. That's exactly how Potter's side will boost their egos when they win. They'll use the phrase 'even when the odds were against us', to retell of their victory in history books. The truth, however, is that the world does not bode well with the idea of it being oppressed and ruled by pure evil. And it will fight that much harder to make sure that the winning side will be an evil that it can stomach. An evil clothed in the emblem of good, hence, Potter's side."

"Hmm," Pansy's air was thoughtful. As much as she might wish to deny it, the truth behind Draco's words left no room for protest. "I am going to talk it over with Blaise, and see what his feelings are about this. And then I will consider enlisting Potter to help me out," she decided.

"Sensible idea, Parkinson," Draco grumbled, suddenly feeling very disgruntled and unhappy, even though he had managed to partially convince her of the worth of his idea. Unheeding of her curious glance, he stretched once more out onto the grass, bent on ignoring her presence entirely. Grim thoughts and plans formulated at the back of his head. He wanted nothing more than peace of mind to sort and examine them carefully.

Beside him, Pansy stood up and her shadow fell over him, blocking out the sun. "Lunch is almost over, are you coming?" she asked.

"No."

"Well, I'm going. If you decide not to come to DADA I guess I can keep on going with the stomach flu excuse. I'll drop the homework that you miss by later, after classes. Thanks for all your help," was the lengthy goodbye. He barely heard two words of it and sent no reply back. After a short pause the soft earth thudded underneath her footsteps as she moved away. He had believed himself alone when Pansy's voice broke through his concentration yet again. "And Draco…" she paused, obviously wanting his reply.

"Yes?" he growled.

"Apologise to Weasley. I like you better blond," came her parting words, and Draco's scowl only deepened on his face.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

When the last bell rang, signalling the end of yet another school day, and when Ginny tallied up the events that had trespassed since morning, she realised that it had been a grand success. Not only had she finished her potion and was going to test it on her ferret sometime after dinner, but, she had cursed Draco Malfoy with an incurable case of Weasley looks, _and_ had gotten no detention from Snape for hexing the Head Boy. She had been congratulated at every turn by all the Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors that she had encountered since morning.

However, what she enjoyed the most was the deception behind it. Everyone was content to assume that her motives had been simple revenge, that she had wanted nothing better than to defend the honour of her family. Knowing that her actions had followed ulterior plans made her feel like the cat that had eaten the canary and had gotten away with it. _They have such simple minds,_ she thought. It was a kind of remark that he would have made, his voice a silky promise of forbidden things. Ginny inwardly shuddered, torn between horror and pleasure.

"Oy Ginny, wait up!" someone called out behind her, and she stopped walking, scanning the hall for the voice that had summoned her

Neville was hurriedly making his way towards her, a big smile plastered on his round face. He was waving a hand at her in hello and carrying his books in another, and Ginny thought of telling him to slow down so that he wouldn't spill all his books in the hallway. Then she rethought that advice and refrained from opening her mouth. Neville was grown enough to take care of himself, and warning him often lead to him actually going against the advice. It was better to keep silent. Things worked out for Neville when there was nobody to mother him.

"Hello, Neville," she spoke softly as he stopped to her side, his smile reaching unfathomed proportions.

"How's my favourite Gryffindor doing?" he asked and fell into step seamlessly beside her.

Ginny shot him a sly grin and continued walking. "I can tell you that I have had a most fabulous day."

"So I've heard. What I wouldn't have given to be there when you charmed the Malfoy looks off of Malfoy. It certainly was a moment that will go down as a clear win for the Weasleys in the history of the Malfoy-Weasley feud," he chuckled.

It was amazing how coherent Neville could be when he wasn't intimidated by anybody. His speech was graceful and distinguished and always intelligent and insightful. All traces of stuttering and insecurity were gone and he suddenly seemed very much like the young seventeen year old wizard that he was, instead of the blundering child that most associated him with.

Although he had never told her expressly, Ginny believed that Neville had been practicing both his magic and his manners over the summer, having finally grown enough of a spine to stop hiding behind the green skirts of his grandmother. She had a nagging suspicion that the air of confidence had been inspired by his growth spurt. Being able to tower over his grand-mum certainly had its advantages when it came to the subject of her bullying him.

Despite growing six inches and shedding some of his extra weight, Neville still retained the round, full-moon face, the gentle-brown eyes and the soft-spoken voice that had him labelled by the lower year Gryffindors as "The Gentle Giant". He still stumbled when he was nervous and his new size served to accentuate his awkwardness, making him the object of Slytherin ridicule. He would never be handsome, Ginny mussed; the elegance of his stature eluded him. Nor would he capture the attention of a crowd the way Harry, Ron or even Malfoy seemed to whenever they were present. Neville would always blend into the background, perfectly inoffensive and inconspicuous, the willing victim of underestimation.

It was a tragic thing to be, Ginny supposed, especially since Neville was incredibly talented at Herbology, but she couldn't find interest in her mind for an emotion stronger than sympathy. She had long conceded the point that there were those in the world that were neither villains nor heroes, but just people blessed with a mundane existence. She hadn't yet made up her mind about which was the better. They all bore their crosses alone.

"Gin? Are you okay?" he asked, drawing her out of her reverie.

"Yeah… I was just thinking," she murmured vaguely. There sometimes were days when Neville's sunny smile would dissolve her grim thoughts. Today, however, was not that sort of day.

"You're always thinking," he remarked quietly, and Ginny became painfully aware of the fact that it was just the two of them in empty hallway, with the afternoon sun filtering through the windows, highlighting her hair.

It was another one of those awkward moments that had been taking place between them ever since the beginning of the year. Ginny counted to ten silently in her head and willed the magic of whatever was making Neville gape at her in that manner away. They had been decent friends for years, through the thick and thin that came with living at a boarding school. For them to fall more and more into these kinds of moments was silly. He was one of the very few people that had come close enough to be labelled as a friend, and Ginny knew that she was one of the few girls that Neville was comfortable enough to talk to without embarrassing himself. And yet, ever since they had returned from the summer hols, there had been a taciturn aura of awkwardness shadowing their conversations. The most blatant manifestations of it came with this unjustifiable quietness that made Ginny's skin crawl in warning.

"So, Neville, are the Mandrake plants grown yet?" she asked, quickening her pace in a desperate attempt to make easy conversation and steer away from the awkwardness.

"Professor Sprout is going to use them in a lesson in two weeks. And of course we're also separating the babies from the parent plants and potting them in the greenhouse soil around that same time," Neville answered, excitement evident in his voice.

Ginny nodded thoughtfully, processing the information offered. Mandrake plants were essential ingredients in Energy and Restorative potions, both of which were in short supply in Ginny's stash. If the Invisibility Antidote would fail yet again, Ginny would have to resort to pilfering some plants from Madame Sprout's greenhouse to restock some of the more commonly-used ingredients in her potions cabinet. "Are the roses still in bloom?" she asked, hoping to sound conversational.

"They will be for another week. After which we're probably going to uproot them, cover them in preservative wax and store them away until next year. We're clearing the greenhouse now and getting it ready for the winter season."

"Ah, so you must be busy," Ginny remarked, and then winced at her tactlessness. She knew better than to make such open-ended sentences without actual intent. Sometimes, true genius came from the simple art of keeping one's mouth shut in certain situations.

"As a matter of fact, we are. We're thinking of recruiting some more volunteers to help the preparations along. The Herbology Club can't possibly handle everything in just two weeks."

Ginny sighed at the subtle invitation in Neville's voice and berated herself once again for opening her mouth. He was expecting her to help him after her previous statement, and she didn't want to. Between her schoolwork, Prefect duties and her laboratory, there just wasn't time for anything else. It had been her reason for quitting the Quiddich team halfway through her Fifth year – though she had used her injuries (a dislocated elbow and a broken leg) as scapegoats for the decision. Of course, if she did decide to help Neville out then she would have direct access to the greenhouse and some of the more common plants being grown there. It would make pilfering them infinitely easier.

"Well, I can come and help out from time to time in the afternoons, when I'm free from Prefect duties and lessons," Ginny offered. One or two voluntary missions would be sufficient to replenish her supplies, and then she could cry off as being too busy. It would be believable enough.

"Could you? That would be fab Ginny! We need all the help that we can get." Neville's face was radiating with happiness. It was almost as if Crimbo and his birthday had come early that year. Ginny shuddered once again, hoping that Neville's enthusiasm would defuse given her aloofness.

He, however, did not seem to remark her frosty air and continued to share his plans for the greenhouse. Ginny did the sensible thing and remained quiet, allowing her thoughts to drift to other matters, such as her impeding confrontation with Malfoy and the upcoming plans for her laboratory. When the portrait of the Fat Lady greeted the both of them amicably, Ginny hurried to give the password and to escape Neville's company by hurrying up to her dormitory. Once there, she set her book bag by her nightstand and allowed herself to fall onto her bed with a muffled plop. _Finally, time alone with myself,_ she thought not without a certain amount of tired satisfaction.

The red of the curtains and the canopy contrasted the sunflower yellow, a poor impersonation of gold, on her bed sheets. Ginny sighed. She hated the endless red. It was too reminiscent of the shade that haunted her dreams. The yellow was equally un-soothing, and rather quite revolting in its forced joviality. She longed for the cool and calming tones of blues, and greens and auburns. But they weren't House colours, and no matter how many times she'd charm her curtains and covers a different colour she would always return to find the same perpetual prison of red and gold.

It was just another aspect of Hogwarts that she couldn't wait to get away from. She loathed the concept of House Pride, almost as much as she hated the idea of House Rivalry. In her opinion, they communicated equally pointless and destructive ideas, and she couldn't shake off the suspicion that if they wouldn't have existed, then Tom wouldn't have turned into a monster either.

So many thoughts swirled in her mind that Ginny couldn't help the tremors that came with exhaustion. She hadn't wanted to admit it, but Neville's observation had been correct. She was always thinking, possibly as much as Hermione kept her nose buried in a textbook, and most of the time, her own thoughts chewed away at her endlessly, and without respite. Even insomnia was a poor attempt at putting a grinding halt to the wheels of her mind. More often than she liked, Ginny wondered if she hadn't plunged off the edge of sanity already and was somehow still in denial about it.

_But then, if you are already insane, then everything you're trying to do is useless, isn't it?_ a mutinous voice at the back of her head asked, and Ginny slapped her forehead in annoyance trying to still the voice. It was the truth once again. Her entire hopeless quest of finishing school a year in advance, of getting back the diary, of getting lost in the immensity of the world, they were all attempts to regain that precious part of herself that had become lost in the rubble of the Chamber five years before. He had taken it, and now she wanted it back. And if it meant taking him along with her, then so be it. _It'll be you and me Tom, you and me forever. Just like you promised,_ she thought, her lips stretching in a sinister grin. Yes, she most definitely could live with that compromise.

"Ginny! Ginny wake up!" A hand on her shoulder and a familiar voice roused her from her dreamless sleep. It was one of the benefits of staying up for four nights in a row with the help of energising potions. When her body finally gave out on her, she passed out, and the nightmares couldn't accompany her into unconsciousness.

"Wha-?" she asked, thoroughly confused and rubbing her eyes gently with fisted hands.

"You fell asleep, it's time for dinner," the voice continued, as did the shaking.

This time, she opened her eyes, and stared blankly at the familiar bushy hair, straight nose and brown eyes of Hermione. "Huh?" came her still-sleepy remark.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Ginny. Ron and Harry are waiting for us downstairs in the common room, everyone else has gone to dinner, will you hurry up?" she asked, sounding most annoyed.

"'m not hungry," Ginny replied, making an effort to sit by the edge of her bed, legs dangling fractions off the floor, without falling. Her head was spinning with drowsiness, and her body felt as heavy as lead, and she just wanted to return to her pillow. Hermione, however, seemed to have other plans, and was insistently informing her of something that Ginny couldn't bother to comprehend. Slowly, she turned her head to survey her bed. The sheets were rumpled and the pillow sported a round and embarrassingly large wet mark, evidence that she had indeed been sleeping deeply. Paying no attention to Hermione's babble, she interrupted, "Ever since when do you guys wait for me to go to dinner?"

"Ever since we're all Prefects and we must all hence talk," Hermione replied, not at all bothered by her sarcastic inquiry.

"Mgh," Ginny interjected intelligently and stood up, wavering slightly on her feet. "Just so you know, you interrupted a perfectly good round of sleep," she mumbled with a frown.

"Honestly, Ginny," Hermione assumed her mother tone. "You can get more than enough sleep at night. The time for after classes is for studying not sleeping. You have Prefect duties tonight, when are you going to finish your lessons?" she asked, and her tone held a certain amount of censure.

"Why don't you worry about your own lessons, Hermione?" Ginny asked, her voice stretched with tension.

It wasn't that the bushy haired girl didn't mean well. Ginny knew that behind Hermione's obsessive-compulsive exterior lay a very generous and kind heart, as well as a penchant for adventure and breaking the rules. However, ever since she had been named Head Girl she had taken it on as her own personal vendetta to make sure that every one of her friends did not put a toe out of line when it came to their studies. It was almost as if their studying habits reflected her ability to be a good role model and a good Head Girl. Two weeks into the school year, and it was already getting more than ridiculous. Ginny disguised her scoff with a gentle cough.

"You know I didn't mean it like that, Ginny," Hermione attempted again, her manner reconciliatory. The gentle squeeze she gave her right shoulder confirmed it, but Ginny didn't feel very forgiving, so she settled for glaring silently at her. "It's just that I worry. You're trying to take on so much, what with all these extra advanced classes, and I know how much it means to you…"

"Then just leave it well enough alone," she interrupted, seeing the small window of escape to the entire charade. "I have enough on my mind trying to focus on my classes without you stressing me out about them, Hermione."

Hurt flickered in the big brown eyes of Hermione Granger, and Ginny's conscience did take the necessary seconds to make her feel properly guilty. Then, her counter-conscience, which Ginny had bothered to rename as her Slytherin Sense, reminded her that her words had been well-deserved and delivered with the smooth brutality of truth. Her agenda was her own business, and Hermione's penchant for sticking her nose in other people's business could jeopardize her plans. The sooner she discouraged prying in her life, the better. Ginny took a moment to congratulate herself for a job well done, before reassuming the role of the younger, humble Gryffindor.

"I'm sorry Herm, you are absolutely right. I'm going to try to do better with my lessons and duties. I've still been trying to sort them out these past weeks, and it is quite overwhelming, but I'm determined to do it properly. It's a good thing the essays aren't due for another few weeks," she smiled quickly and hurried out of the room.

Behind her, Hermione agreed and then made a comment that Ginny didn't hear. She agreed with it anyway, not wanting to give rise to yet another debate. The world worked smoothly when Hermione's whims weren't questioned. Ginny had long grown accustomed to slinking along in the darkness, and no longer took any offence at the way things played out in her House. Her stomach gave a low growl, reminding her indeed that it was time to go to dinner.

"So, are you going to do it?" Hermione's voice once again interrupted her reverie at the dinner table.

Ginny had been starring off in the direction of the Slytherin table. Their king seemed to be absent from dinner, wanting undoubtedly to hide his shameful appearance. The mental picture of an ostrich with his head in the sand rose forth in Ginny's thoughts, and she felt herself smile. A peacock was the animal more suited to illustrate Draco Malfoy's vanity, but the ostrich's cowardice more appropriate to the given moment. Ginny could not help the smirk that twisted on her lips. Draco Malfoy as any sort of bird was a hilarious mental image.

"Are you even listening to us?' Ron asked from across the table, where he was busily devouring an entire leg of chicken. Beside him, Harry was silent and preoccupied by his own thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Ron," she replied quietly. "I was just noticing that Malfoy's not at dinner."

Her brother gave an appreciative snort as he turned his body, chicken dangling from his mouth, to look at the Slytherins. "Serves him right, the bastard. He's probably in the library researching a counter-spell for whatever charm you put on him."

Ginny flashed him a serene smile. It would be just like Malfoy to spend the rest of the day peering over Beautification and Disguise Charms in an attempt to find an escape to his problem without resorting to asking her. Ginny had assumed that he would look when she had decided to cast the spell on him, and the idea of sending Malfoy on a wild goose chase had been irresistible. She knew all too well that whatever material he would dig up would be useless in aiding his cause. The Charm she had placed on him was her own intricate work of magic and not yet recorded in any textbooks. _As if the world needed to know how to turn themselves into Weasleys,_ her mind scoffed.

Nonetheless, what had begun as an experiment in spell creation had culminated in one very practical and useful charm. She'd had no idea, back when she had begun experimenting with it, that she would one day use it against someone. Ginny grinned at thinking that she had created a spell specifically designed to piss off Draco Malfoy. Today was indeed a very fortunate day.

"So, Ginny," Hermione cleared her throat. "You haven't answered my question."

"What was it again?"

An annoyed sigh preceded Hermione's reply, "I asked you if you were willing to take over for me the organization of the Halloween Ball. I spoke to Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore and they both agreed it would be a wonderful event to re-include in this school year." Her brown eyes collided with Ginny's, and she noticed the unspoken explanation in them. It was only natural to wine and dine your troops before a battle.

"Oh, sure, but what do you need me for? I thought that these were expressly Head Girl duties." Ginny observed.

"Well," Hermione's voice dropped another decibel. "They are, but I'm busy with a few things for the DA and the Order, and I really don't have time to plan something as silly as that. Plus, I have no imagination for planning parties. You will do as good a job of it as I would if I were doing it. Just don't let Malfoy decorate the entire hall in Slytherin colours," she advised sagely.

Anger coursed through Ginny, but she held it under tight control. She opened her mouth to tell Hermione just what an amazing job she would do of wringing her pompous little neck, but then thought better of it and instead forced out a grateful smile. The other girl beamed at her, and Ginny suddenly wanted to throw up. She had always been, and would always be second violin to the Dream Team. If they had a job that they didn't want to waste their time on, or dirty their little hero hands with, they would pass it on to her, and expect her to be grateful for it. Why? Because she was the little sister of course! Rabid adorer of Saint Potter and his Apostles, and perpetual tag-along whose task was to clean up after they had made the mess!

The nerve of Hermione! Saying it in such a voice as if she was doing Ginny a great favour and not the other way around! Just because she was doing work for the DA and the Order didn't give her permission to speak to her as if she was an insignificant nothing. Age was not a measurement of magical ability. _But you want nothing to do with them,_ her inner voice reminded her gently, curbing her murderous thoughts.

She felt the anger slip away in the face of the silent truth. It was better this way, that she was assigned the tasks that they did not want, that she focused on living and not Their Stupid War. The less she did for their damned cause, the better. Unlike the rest of them, she was not measuring her life according to it. It was what set her apart from them, what made her the Wiser Weasel. Hermione's assumed arrogance, however, still grated on her nerves. Ginny closed her eyes, drew in a breath, took a bite of her meal and then swallowed. The food scraped the inside of her throat and the water she drank afterwards did nothing to soothe the faint burning.

"I'm going out for a smoke," she announced rebelliously, feeling guilty for the childish need to display just how much different she was from them. "You can tell me about what you want done for the Halloween Ball later tonight, Hermione. I'll be up in the common room later."

She was met with three scowling faces, since all three of them condemned her habit, though Harry was by far the least vociferous of the three. The endless satisfaction that she felt at their disapproval erased the last of Ginny's anger. Let them busy with their heroics, she had her own plans to see through.

"Do what you want, Ginny," Ron mumbled accusingly. "It's your death wish," he added.

"Precisely, my dear Ronald," she smirked as she stood up. "What did I tell you about death wishes?"

"To get my own," he grumbled.

"Correct again. I hardly think that Death-by-Sister is a death wish worthy of much praise. Really Ron, you must be more creative than that," was her parting repartee, and the rest of their replies faded into the murmurs of adjacent conversations. Ginny found that she held no curiosity about what any of them might have said.

Outside, warm sunlight caused her to pause on the steps and to admire the sunset, feeling in her bones its sinuous promise of soothing darkness. The sun was an orb of radiant orange quickly sinking bellow a pool of wispy blood-red ribbons; layers discarded haphazardly in the attempt to distance from the poisonous memory of morning glory. To Ginny, it looked like an attempt at suicide, elegant and poised, necessary and swift. It was death in the sky. She could smell it in the violence of the violets and purples and blues and navies that swirled together brutally, in one final protest against the passing of their monarch.

But he would go, he had to. It was the natural proceeding of things, the replacement of a part that had grown useless and faulty with something more superior. It was change and death and birth and old and new meeting together and clashing, until the old became the unrecognizable new and there would be no dispute of its supremacy. She wondered briefly what she was, the old giving way to the new, or the new invading the old and absorbing it into its vacuous depths. Did it even matter?

The pack of cigarettes trembled in her hand as she struggled to push her thoughts from her mind. Nothing mattered right now but the infinitely filling sensation of smoke in her lungs and of her lips curled around the end of the cigarette. Ginny tried hard not to think of how much the act of smoking was her escape from life and people and even aspects of herself she didn't want to deal with.

She was just about to light her cigarette when a sound in the bushes near her right, a cross between a strangled yelp and a muffled croak, alerted her that she was not alone. Whatever was lurking there sounded dangerous, and Ginny did not hesitate when drawing her wand out and plunging through the bushes. "Stupe-," she stopped mid-curse, the cigarette that had been dangling from her lips falling to the ground, forgotten in light of the sight before her.

She should have known it was Malfoy. After all, he hadn't been at dinner, and she had met him in this very place the night before. As far as she knew he was one of the only other students at Hogwarts who engaged in the Muggle habit of smoking, so she should have expected it. What she hadn't expected, however, was to find Malfoy sporting a set of long white whiskers, a pert pearl-black snout and two, tiny, white weasel-ears. The giggle that erupted from her lips was wholly undignified, but Ginny truly couldn't help herself.

"Good evening to you too, Weasel," he sneered, looking all the more ridiculous for it.

"Takes one to know one, Ferret," she laughed again.

"Oh, piss the fuck off Weaselette. Haven't you done enough damage for one day?" he growled, and with a _Finite Incantatem _returned his features to the red Weasley hair and patented freckles. With a grumpy sigh he sat down on the grass and pulled out his own cigarette.

"The Amazing Bouncing Ferret, defeated. I would have never imagined the day," Ginny commented, sarcasm burning in her voice.

He scowled up at her, cheeks red with fury. "If you want an apology, you can forget about it. I'm going to find a way to break this charm," he stated, craning his neck to look up at her, thunder written in his charmed eyes.

Ginny smirked. She hadn't expected him to just give up after a day of fruitless research. After all, she had just walked in on his latest failed attempt at disabling the charm. And what an amusing attempt it had been! Inwardly, she was proud of her spell work. It was an intricate task to create a spell that would trigger ulterior side-effects when tampered with unrightfully. _I really must try this spell-creation bit more often,_ she noted before returning her attention to Malfoy. "Why Malfoy, why would I want an apology from you?" she questioned, her voice pure husky sugar.

"Don't even try that voice with me again, demon spawn. I know better than to fall for it twice," he sneered sulkily at her.

Ginny laughed again, unable to do anything else. The sight of Malfoy dejected and powerless was doing wonders for her ego. She could see now why Tom so enjoyed toying with people. It was exhilarating. "You really should stop with the attempts to sneer. It was a pathetic feat at best when your body was graced with the Malfoy genes, but now it truly looks ridiculous."

"Well it's a known fact that the horde of you, barbarians is not evolved enough for such complex facial expressions," came his swift rebuttal.

"You know Malfoy, you might try being a little nicer. After all, I do have your future looks in my hands." Spitefully, she joined him on the grass, sitting directly in front of him, and locking her eyes with his, in a silent battle of the wills.

"You have nothing Weaselette. Just delusions of fame," Malfoy snarled, his entire, freckle-dusted face contorting in hate.

"You won't find a counter-spell for that charm anywhere in the world, Malfoy," she was tired of the useless clashing of wills. This was an ample time to offer him the deal she sought.

"Are you saying you created your own spell?" his voice was nothing short of incredulous, but Ginny did have to give him credit for catching the undertones of her previous statement. Not many people would have. It was refreshing to see a modicum of cunningness, even if it was Malfoy.

"Why does that surprise you, Malfoy?"

"Because I'm sure that like the stupid Weasel that you are, you probably never thought of a counter-spell," he glared at her coldly. Upon seeing the faint blush that rose to her features, Malfoy continued, "I'm right, aren't I? You've never thought of the counter-spell, and since you made it impervious to _Finite_, there is absolutely no hope of ever restoring me to my previous glory."

His choice of words made her smile, while the disdain in his voice made her freeze up on the inside. It was amazing what a tangled mass of contradictions Draco Malfoy could be, his moods running hot and then cold and never anything consistently predictable. He was a paradox, Ginny realised, infinitely complicated and yet simple at the same time. And she knew all about paradoxes. After all, she thought of herself in similar idyllic terms. _It's scary,_ she concluded, _that in five minutes of trading insults with Malfoy, I feel more comfortable than I've felt at home in six years._ This, however, was an observation she could pick apart in the many hours of sleeplessness that awaited her. For now, she had a bargain to conclude.

"Don't be daft Malfoy. Weasels are notorious for their wit, caution and ability to plan ahead," Ginny sneered back at him. "Of course there is a way to remove the charm. It's just a bit… unconventional," she wrinkled her nose.

"What is it?" he was hanging onto her every word. This was a very good sign that she had his attention.

"Well Malfoy, you don't think I'm just going to give it to you out of the goodness of my heart. After all, you insulted my mother's intellectual and moral abilities, not to mention that you called me a whore in front of an entire class full of students."

She noted with satisfaction that he did have the grace to blush hotly when she enumerated his transgressions so boldly. Perhaps there was a sense of decency underneath all of Malfoy's self-proclaimed superiority.

"I'm not apologising to you," he informed her stubbornly.

"No, I didn't think you would," Ginny smirked. "But I couldn't care less for your insincere apology."

"What are you proposing?" Malfoy's voice was strained with tension. Ginny had to again pause and praise his uncanny ability to catch her hidden meanings.

"A trade."

"What sort of trade?"

They were discussing business now; she could feel his entire demeanour change. He was no longer childishly churlish and lashing out only to insult her. He had morphed into the exquisitely refined business man, scrutinizing the issue for any pitfalls and hidden implications. There was no boyishness about him now, and the severe line of his jaw became, if possible, even tighter with restraint. Seriousness replaced petty hate in his manner of addressing her.

"Your looks for an item of mine in your possession," she replied vaguely.

"What in the bloody hell do I own that is yours, Weasley?" the rage in his question was clipped and controlled. His eyes boiled with fury.

"Yes or no, Malfoy. We can discuss the particulars afterwards," she deadpanned.

"Fine. I agree to it. Now what in hell's blazes do you want from me? I can assure you that the Malfoy family has none of the trash that usually graces your household," he snipped savagely.

"'tis but a simple object that is of no use to you," she informed him, completely overlooking his insult. "An old and blackened diary that you might have seen your father with the summer after your First year."

This time Malfoy snorted and then looked at her, disbelief etched plainly on his face. "Don't bloody tell me that my father stole your diary and now you want it back!" he exclaimed.

"Not my diary. It's the diary of someone I used to know."

"Who?"

"I think that's enough questions on your part," Ginny cut him off frostily. "It's no business of yours."

"You are such a stupid bint!" Malfoy growled. "I need to know whose diary it is so I can bloody well Summon it. We have a million books at the Manor. If you think that I am going to spend my winter hols going through them one by one to make sure they're your stupid little diary then you're more mad than I originally gave you credit for!"

She did have the grace to blush at his outburst. Of course he would be needing the name of the diary's owner. It didn't mean, however, that she wanted to give it to him. He would surely know it, and that would give rise to an entirely new set of questions. He was still Head Boy and had a duty of honour to protect the safety of the students. Even Malfoy had to have a shred of honour underneath his slimy snake-like exterior. He couldn't have been raised in an ancient and pure-blooded family without hearing of the concept. "Tom Riddle," she ground out in the end, glancing at Malfoy wearily.

He did not seem to know the name, and Ginny quietly exhaled the breath she was holding. Malfoy's next question, however, grated on her nerves. "Is that his entire name?"

"Tom _Marvolo_ Riddle," she spat at him angrily.

He beamed at her, and she had to sit on her hands to prevent from wiping the smugness off his face most violently. "Now, what about my looks, when will they be restored to me?" he questioned.

"When you give me the diary."

"No, Weaselette, that will not do at all," he told her calmly.

"And why not? It's only fair," she glared at him.

"That will not do," he spat, "because I cannot give you the diary sooner than after Crimbo hols. And I will _not_ be endorsing the Weasel look until then."

"A contract, then?" her glare had morphed into a predatory smirk after she had stifled to urge to childishly inform him that Weasley was in fashion that year and he had nothing to fear for endorsing the latest trend.

"Very well. Shall I Summon us a typical Wizarding Contract then?"

"Oh no, Malfoy," Ginny purred, reaching into the pocket of her robe. "We are going to do this in a way that leaves you no means of squirming out of it."

He stared suspiciously at the tiny Celtic knife that she produced out of her pocket. "What the hell are you going to do?"

"In ancient times, before wands and Wizarding Contracts were invented, wizards used to make their bargains by using an intermediary. The bond forged was unbreakable, and the wizard was compelled to keep his oath," Ginny explained, staring stonily at Malfoy.

"So who did they use?" he asked, his expression curious.

"Why, the oldest intermediary there was," she replied with a smile, "the Earth."

"You have to be bloody kidding me!" Malfoy exploded. "You cannot mean an Earth Vow. That's dangerous, ancient magic. Hell, it might even be Dark for all I know!" he protested.

"Surely the son of a Death Eater isn't scared of a little bit of ancient magic," she commented caustically.

"Weaselette, I'd be a fool not to be weary of magic that hasn't been practiced for at least a millennium."

"Well, people have called you a plonker before. Daft too," Ginny grinned, knowing that she was only goading him into accepting her terms. "Anyway Malfoy, it's the only way I'm going to do this. I don't trust your Wizarding Contracts or what not. So, yes or no?"

At his shaky nod, Ginny briskly sliced open her palm, letting a stream of blood sink into the earth at her feet. "The Earth keeps my promise for me," she muttered. "I will return you to your previous looks by next Wednesday." A quick healing charm and the wound had closed, leaving puckered-angry red flesh in its wake.

"Next Wednesday? I shall have to endure this until _next_ Wednesday, Weaselette. It's Tuesday now, that's more than a week away. I can't keep eating in the kitchens like a house elf and hiding in dark alcoves like an ogre!" Malfoy protested vehemently.

"Then perhaps you should have apologised to me, Malfoy," Ginny bit back. "Now shut up and cut. And you better give me the book first day after winter hols," she growled, thrusting the knife at him blade-first.

Malfoy muttered something under his breath but took the knife, and in silent resignation mimicked her previous actions. "The Earth keeps my promise for me. I will return you Tom Marvolo Riddle's diary by the first day after the winter hols."

Satisfied, Ginny took her knife back, stuffed it into the pocket of her robes and stood up. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Malfoy," she threw back over her shoulder with a smirk.

"A nightmare as always, Weaselette," was his reply, and Ginny couldn't help the giggle that escaped her lips.

Draco Malfoy was a paradox indeed.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Pansy, is it Wednesday yet?" he wailed at the breakfast table, first thing Friday morning.

He had arrived late, as usual, not wanting to face the hordes of snickering students that had been throwing him barely concealed looks of disbelief all week. Somehow, he had turned from Draco Malfoy Slytherin Bastard Extraordinaire, into Draco Malfoy Travelling Freak Show, all in the span of three measly days. Not that any of them dared to do anything to his face other than gape at him wordlessly. But the knowledge that they were snickering at his appearance behind his back drove Draco crazy. He had yet to devise a way to deduct house points for disrespectful thoughts. For now, he settled for terrifying the First Years to the point of incoherency.

"Draco you've been asking that question non-stop for the past seventy-two hours. If you do not stop right now I'm going to hex off your mouth and your hands and you'll be forced to spend the rest of your time until Wednesday looking like a lip-less, hand-less, red-headed Weasley," Pansy threatened, throwing him a most acid glare.

"I will most definitely consider that answer next time you ask me for a favour," Draco scrunched his nose in a pristine sniff and abandoned his porridge in favour of cold, black coffee.

"Mate, it's not that bad. Most of the House has gotten used to your new looks and knows better than to cross you about it," Blaise spoke from his place to the right of Pansy.

At the sound of his voice, Draco stiffened and immediately straightened his back. "Blaise, I would suggest shutting your mouth and not speaking to me until this ordeal is over. I never liked you in the first place and your latest display of camaraderie will soon make me expel my breakfast. I am not your 'mate' nor shall I ever be," he paused enough to draw breath for an offended huff, before he continued, "also, your chances of me liking you because you happen to be snogging my best friend are being greatly jeopardized by your stupendously moronic commentary. In case you failed to notice, I was talking to Pansy," he scoffed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, there are First Years to terrorize."

He rose from the table in cold fury, robes billowing behind him, the very picture of offended elegance. Vaguely, he head Blaise's protesting squeak, and Pansy's low voice calming him, but he was much too preoccupied by his thoughts to bother with them. They would sort it out in the end, and, maybe later, if Pansy insisted, he would apologise to Blaise. It would be under duress, of course, because while he could argue his outburst as a case of nerves, he was still angry at Blaise for refusing to see Pansy's logic and insisting to follow in the footsteps of his father.

_A fat lot of good it would do him! Look where it got that poor sod that he idolizes so!_ Draco huffed angrily at his own inner voice, who was most insistently reminding him that until Fifth Year he too had worshiped the ground that Lucius Malfoy stepped on. Blaise, who only had an imaginary conception of his long-dead father to hold onto, could not be blamed for wanting to do right by his image. Nonetheless, Draco could tell him first-hand what a life of servitude to the Dark Lord entailed; something his father could not, most certainly. _It's not gossip and tea parties, for Merlin's sake!_ Blaise, however, was unintelligent enough to be blinded by his family's convictions, and he would chalk all Draco's tales to lies and weakness if he attempted any conversation on the subject. He would then proceed to off his mouth about it, which would leave Draco in a spot of trouble with the Dark Lord, and he truly wanted to avoid that situation for as long as possible.

If Blaise wanted to verify on his own skin reality's tendency to be more sinister than imagination, Draco was all for letting him. He couldn't care less if Blaise decided to take the Mark and become indoctrinated as a servant to his lord. As he had stated, there was no love lost between them. Pansy, however, viewed the oaf in an entirely different light, and Draco cared about Pansy.

The point, however, was moot, and he was unable to interfere directly in any of their affairs, lest he chance mucking up things more than they were already. The best he could do was to give quiet pointers from the sidelines, but even those went unheeded, as Pansy had yet to talk to Potter about her predicament. Draco knew all too well that he could lead a horse to water but he couldn't make it drink. He hoped that subtle persuasion would convince Pansy to remove herself from the situation before it became serious. Blaise or no Blaise, this was about his best friend and her well being, and Draco was determined to disallow anything from interfering in it.

He glanced disinterestedly at his pocket watch, his thoughts still on the problem of Pansy and Blaise, and noted that he had five minutes left before first period would commence. With a sigh he willed his feet to move in the direction of the library, unheeding of the other students that were scrambling to get to their various classes. Seeing how his first period of every Friday was a spare, Draco had gotten into the habit of going to the library and enjoying the peace and quiet he found there. He did his best work on such mornings, when the library was deserted and there were none distracting him from his assignments.

It was therefore a surprise when, after greeting Madame Pince and flirting with her shamelessly, he headed for his favourite table by the large oval window near the Restricted Section, and found it occupied. The anonymous invader, for Draco could think of no better title for the impertinent brat that was sitting at_ his_ table, was hiding behind a large tome entitled _Ancient Magical Rites and Spells: A time before the Wand_. In a most infuriating display of magical skill, the book floated at a convenient angle above the table as the stranger scratched furiously on parchment. Shocked frozen into mid-gait, Draco watched as a page turned without the aid of hand, wand or whispered spell, the stranger's concentration showing no sign of wavering as he or she continued writing seamlessly. He had to admit that he was mildly curious as to who else had a Friday morning free period. In the weeks following the beginning of Seventh Year, he had always found himself alone in the library on this given day. To have someone else invade his privacy so suddenly and without warning not only transformed the uniqueness of this time into commonness, but it meant a gap in his knowledge. As Head Boy, such a gap was inadmissible.

As soon as the initial shock wore off and Draco gained control of his legs, he resumed walking towards the table, deciding to be intrigued by the situation rather than to be resentful. The mystery was dissolved when he came close enough to the stranger to be able to peek over the levitated book. His senses were immediately assaulted by red hair the shade of copper, a nuance darker than the grotesque ginger he had been waking up to every morning. It seemed to be flowing endlessly over the bony landscape of back and shoulders, like the cursed river Styx, obscuring any and all other details.

Not that Draco needed another clue about the ingrate who had invaded his personal pace. There was only one Weasley with precisely this shade and length of hellfire hair, and she had created enough tumultuous pitfalls in Draco's existence already. He arranged his face into a ferocious scowl and prepared himself for the confrontation that would undoubtedly ensue. The chance to irk and get back at her for the misery she had caused him was too good to miss, and Being A Royal Pain in the Arse had been Draco's special talent since childhood. Letting this opportunity pass would be akin to going against his nature.

"Detention, Weasley, for being out of class without permission," he ground out as he came to a full stop on her right, beside the table.

He would have expected her to jump given that she had been so engrossed in her reading and note-taking. However, the littlest weasel had gotten into the annoying habit of behaving most unpredictably, and thus, Draco shouldn't have been that surprised when she continued writing as if she hadn't heard him. For many moments he watched her quill spew out neatly curled writing, which upside down looked like a nonsense mass of tangled wires but that he knew right-side up, was meaningful. She finally came to cross her t's and dot her i's, upon which she lay down the quill, slowly lifted her head from the paper and bore into him with her unfazed, bottomless, brown eyes.

There were a few more moments of silence, in which his steely silver gaze locked with her unreadable brown one, but finally she took his challenge and spoke, "You have the grace of a Hippogriff, Malfoy. I could hear you from miles away," she commented in the calmest, most factual voice that Draco had ever heard in his life.

"Detention," he remained firmly on his track of mind, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him discomposed yet again.

"You can't give me detention," she scoffed, and magically, another page of the book turned by itself. Draco took a moment in which to be annoyed by her exhibitionist display of concentration and magical ability before returning to his taunting.

"And why not?" he sneered, propping himself against the table in what he could only assume to be an air of arrogance. He had yet to try arrogance on his new appearance, but silently he hoped it worked better than his attempts at snorting or sneering. Merlin knew how embarrassing _those_ had been.

"Because I have a right to be here," she explained, and he wondered silently why she seemed to be taking all of this so well. Another time she would have surely hexed him silly. He made a note of the fact that she had a penchant for doing the unpredictable. It meant, of course, that unsettling her would take creativity and intelligence; two attributes which Draco had in abundance. He was inwardly pleased that she was a worthy opponent with which to trade insults, as most of the time his efforts were wasted on that clique of idiotic plebeians known as the Dream Team.

"_You_," he drawled, half snarling, half biting the monosyllabic word, "have no rights whatsoever."

"How quaint of you Malfoy," she sneered back at him. "What was this about the Head Boy being impartial to all students? You stink of favouritism," she sniffed at him disdainfully. "In any case _the rules_ state that a spare period should be used as a study period, and where better to study than the library, Malfoy?"

"It's precisely because of those rules that you are going to serve detention with Filch later tonight," he rebuked. "Your rights automatically become suspended when you abuse such study _privileges_," he smirked at her in satisfaction.

"Oh spare me the threats. On a regular day they would be stupid, but given your new looks they're absolutely idiotic," she actually had the gall to laugh at him! "I don't expect you to believe me so here's my schedule. That way we can end this dispute and I can go back to my work," she emphasised her impatience to be rid of him by picking up the discarded quill.

Draco took up the piece of paper she had thrown in his general direction. Upon scanning her time table he discovered that she had, indeed, not been lying. His inner Slytherin, however, refused to acknowledge it. "This is a pretty piece of charm work Weaselette," he snarled at her. "But I still don't believe you. I've seen how proficient you are with that wand of yours."

An almost feral grin graced her lips at his words, as she looked up from her book and locked her eyes with him. Draco was shocked to discover the shadows that lay in their bottomless depths. Shadows he was all too familiar with. "It's good to know that you're afraid, Malfoy," was her bemused reply. "In any case, you can keep the schedule and crosscheck it with Dumbledore's copy. I'm sure as Head Boy you have access to that sort of stuff," she dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Now piss off, I've got work to do."

"You know, Weaselette, with those manners of yours, it's amazing you made it out of the Zoo. You should be nicer to me, I might just have to call the Magical Animals Control Reinforcement Division," he hissed at her.

"You're right, I do hear that the Ferret population of Hogwarts has gotten out of hand this year. Maybe they can come and neuter him so that he doesn't breed further," she retorted ferociously.

Draco's inner man couldn't help but cringe at her suggestion. As any respectable male, he did not take kindly to any sort of threat made to his family jewels, especially seeing how he was the last of the Malfoys and thus had a moral obligation to centuries of ancestors to continue the family name. _Is that really what you need, Draco?_ his conscience prodded at him, _More obligations?_ the sarcasm in the question was all too evident, so he stomped that mutinous voice in his head into silence and focused his attention on the match of verbal sparring.

"That's funny Weaselette, I could have sworn you were a weasel and not a ferret, not to mention of the female variety. Hmm, I guess I was wrong."

"The only ferret here is you, Malfoy," she scoffed at him.

"Ah, so then you admit that you're a weasel?" he smirked at her again, knowing that he had won their argument.

"Well, when the only other choice is ferret, yes, I'd rather be a weasel. As a weasel I can be known for my cunning and my guile as a wild animal of prey as opposed to just being another ordinary house pet and eating commercial cat food," she winked at him with nonchalance, an easy-going smile stretching on her lips.

It took a moment or two for Draco to recover from his shock, and even then he couldn't collect his thoughts enough to master a reply. Not only had she delivered the smoothest repartee he had ever heard, but she had winked at him! Nobody had winked at him before, and he wasn't sure what exactly to make of it. The motion in itself was ineloquent and undignified, but he had to admit it was strangely captivating. It was like they were privy to their own inside joke, except Draco knew that she was mocking him, and she knew she was mocking him, and thus the joke was on him.

"It was a pleasure chatting with you, Weaselette, but I'm afraid such an important person as myself has more pressing tasks to attend to," he informed her once he was composed enough to master a reply, and walked away, refusing to lose any more of his dignity to her sharp tongue. He would have to learn to limit their verbal battles to only those which he could win. She was infinitely better at this than he had given her credit for.

"A nightmare as always, Malfoy," she called after him, and he had to smirk, because she had used the exact words he had thrown in her face last Tuesday when this entire debacle had started.

Half an hour later, he threw his book on the table with an exasperated sigh and glared at her concentrated form two tables away. He had gotten no work done for Snape's latest Potions project, and it was all her fault. His thoughts kept on circling back to the smallest weasel, like hungry vultures, and it was the excuse that his eyes needed to drift away from the page, and settle onto her.

In the time he had spent watching her, Draco had noticed that she kept on worrying the left corner of her bottom lip whenever her reading proved difficult. Following the biting of her lip, she would pass two slender fingers over her left eyebrow like she was trying to memorize those few sentences before returning to her quill to jot down the information. This ritual of movement would be sometimes punctuated by moments in which she would pass her long fingers through her red mane and chase away the locks that would be obscuring her vision. It was slowly driving him crazy, since instead of reading his Potions text he kept on trying to anticipate when exactly she would decide to tame the wispy locks that spilled rebelliously over her shoulders.

A myriad of thoughts paraded through his head as he continued to stare at her, and he was surprised to find that they did not stray to such matters as the war, or Death Eaters, or Pansy or his Mother. Instead, he found himself thinking of how he hadn't before noticed that the Weaselette's hair was indeed like a river of fire, vibrant and straight across her back and shoulders. He also hadn't remarked how abnormally it tumbled past her buttocks and how completely it hid all her soft, feminine curves, forcing those that chose to observe her to imagine the landscapes that lay behind the fiery curtain.

It was mysterious that she had chosen not to cut it, in a time where short hair was the fashion amongst witches, and even more mysterious that she would never style it, either with the customary Muggle hair products, or with the customary spells that Pansy and other witches used. He searched his memories of Seventh Year to disprove his theory and found none. The only hairstyles that the Weaselette endorsed were a braid, a pony tail, or today's loose style; all attempts that took less than thirty seconds of effort to put together.

Surely even a Weasel could afford to learn basic Glamour spells to enhance her appearance. The fact that she hadn't, indicated that she cared naught for the opinion of the world, or that she was confident enough to bear its criticism and move on. Draco knew well enough that she certainly had the mouth to fend off any commentary that made its way to her ears. Moreover, he was grudgingly forced to admit that the simplicity of her appearance did hold a certain amount of appeal. Along with no hairstyling products, he had also never seen her use any of the face, lip and eye makeup that every female at Hogwarts seemed to favour in excess. It was perhaps because she couldn't afford it, but even there, there were certain spells to be learned that did the job of Muggle cosmetics.

All in all, it seemed to Draco that she was making a statement, or rather trying not to make one and failing successfully. It was on the tip of his tongue to waltz over to her and inform her that the way to fend off attention was to blend in with everyone else, not stick out like a sharp nail. But perhaps she wanted to stick out and he had misinterpreted her attempts at congruity. He could never tell for certain with the chemically imbalanced girl-Weasel.

He was honest enough with himself to recognize a lost cause when he saw it, and so, Draco closed his Potions textbook soundlessly, meticulously organized his parchments and returned to the task of scrutinizing her avidly. Settling deeper into the back of his chair, he assumed his customary air of observance and continued his critique of her. Unlike most of the other young boys at Hogwarts, he had no qualms about observing things that interested him. Curiosity was not a characteristic that Draco deemed shameful, and whether it was directed at an object, or a person, it made no difference. It wasn't a crime to stare, and while it might be uncomfortable for the other person, it provided him both with entertainment and necessary information. _The only way to know my rivals is to observe them,_ he argued with the voice in his head that informed him he was spending an unhealthy amount of time thinking about the littlest weasel.

After all, he hadn't filled in his father's shoes for two years without learning a few tricks of the trade. A keen spirit of observation was the primary skill in keeping a sheep in wolf's clothing from revealing its true nature. The ability to react instantaneously to situations was the second. Third was the talent of covering up mistakes before they were noticed by others. Of the three, however, observation was the crucial determinant of his life. Draco had entered the habit of keeping tabs on everyone. _So why not add one more to the list? What terribly horrid secrets could a harmless Weasel harbour?_ It wouldn't even be a challenge; he snorted disdainfully, and mentally opened a new chapter in his book of tabs reserved for the Weaselette.

His first shock came not five minutes later, with the discovery that despite all the comments he could make about her harlot-red hair and shabby clothes she had great potential for beauty. She had finally gotten tired of her hair and had tied it up at the base of her neck, allowing him a full side view of her. Underneath her robes, her body was slender, yet curvaceous in all the right places. Furthermore, her waterfall of tresses inspired a man to think of the many sinuous uses for such glorious hair. He could already picture it spread like a fan on his silky-green pillows. Even the liberal smattering of freckles on her face, neck and arms was not without a certain appeal that he wished he hadn't discovered. They invited a man to memorize each and every one of the pesky imperfections, first with his fingers and then with his lips until they were branded into his memory forever and he could recall them individually. To Draco's horror, the freckles were just the beginning of the insatiable appeal he seemed to discover at every turn in her appearance. It was shocking to note that the most maddening part of her was not her full bosom straining under the material of her robes, but rather the curvature of her slender neck, smattered in fine brownish freckles and drowned in errant fire, a perilous jungle full of mystery and secret silently begging to be discovered and explored.

He broke his gaze away from her and focused it on a bookshelf, stubbornly willing the objectivity back into his opinions. It was reticent in returning, and, after a silent battle with himself, Draco was forced to admit that there was nothing ordinary or second-hand about her looks. She was not a conventional beauty, like his mother with her height and delicate frame, but she was certainly exotic and enticing in her appearance, with just a touch too much mystery to make interest in her a passing fancy. He wondered how he hadn't noticed her before last Tuesday when she had stuck her wand in his jugular and forced him to acknowledge both her person and magical skill. Everything about her practically screamed for attention. From her slender height, curves and hair, to her father's square jaw on her mother's round face with the petite nose, generous lips and huge brown eyes. She was an uncanny mixture of strangeness and harmony that begged for a second, third and even fourth glance. He was willing to bet his inheritance on the fact that like cinnamon peppermint, she was an acquired taste that once accustomed to was incomparable. People like her didn't do things by halves. They didn't know how.

He shuddered and closed his eyes, suddenly wishing he hadn't gone looking for the additional headache. Like always, he had gotten himself in over his head and had read beyond the mask of shabbiness and general Weasel-ness that she displayed to the world. _Surprise, surprise, Draco, she's just as genuine as you,_ the sarcasm was back in his mind's voice but this time he didn't bother to hiss it silent. Just because her appearance was so intoxicatingly real and out in the open didn't mean, however, that she had a personality that fit her worldly shell. Life generally gave with one hand and took with two. She was probably shallow to the core and full of Dumbledore's propaganda regarding the Dark Lord and Their Stupid War.

He consciously chose to ignore the fact that she was intelligent enough to create her own spells and that she was able to practice Ancient Magic, not to mention that she was writing the NEWTs a year early. Intelligence was but an impotent tool when it lacked conviction. It was only when intelligence and conviction ran parallel to one another that a person could consider themselves accomplished. _What about you? Hypocrisy does not suit you,_ the inner voice commented caustically. He may have taken the long way around, but he had finally found out where his convictions lay. Ironically, it did nothing to help his predicament.

"Hullo Ginny," a sotto male voice drew him out of his reverie. Immediately, his eyes snapped open and scanned the surroundings. A disgusted scowl made its way onto his face when he saw the Neanderthal form of Longbottom peering over her shoulder.

"Oh, Neville! You scared me!" she exclaimed, her voice melodious and cheerful. Draco noted the difference in tone and wondered which was closer to the truth: the way she spoke to him or the way she spoke to Longbottom?

"Sorry, Gin-Gin! Didn't mean it, really," he peered down at her with a lovesick smile that almost made Draco expel his breakfast.

Ginny, Gin-Gin, they couldn't very well be her true name, for what sane mother would humiliate her child this way? Even if the Weasel matriarch was bonkers she had managed fine with all her other children's names, ordinary as they were. The only obvious conclusion was that they were nicknames for her real name. But what in Salazar's name became Ginny and Gin-Gin when abbreviated?

He searched his head frantically as the conversation between them progressed, and was slightly disgruntled when he drew up a blank on the Weaselette's real name. She had always been the Weaselette, the Weasel, the girl-Weasel, the smallest Weasel, demon spawn to him, and he had never bothered to learn her true name when he had such a wide selection of more irritating things to call her. But once again, his insatiable curiosity got the better of him. Ginny… it sounded so… plebeian, when he tried it out on his tongue. The elongated n destroyed the supposed melody found between the first and last i sound. It was a nickname meant for a five year old, not for the sixteen year old witch that she was. Gin-Gin sounded slightly better, but infinitely more private and personal in its playfulness. Still, the question nagged at him, Gin-Gin, Ginny, what did it stand for?

"You promised to help out in the greenhouse," Longbottom's voice once again interrupted his musings.

"Err," she croaked, obviously not thrilled by the proposition. Draco fought to stifle a smirk. The greenhouse was hardly a romantic place to take a girl out. But perhaps Longbottom was planning to get her dirty and offer to shower with her in order to conserve water, or something equally idiotic that would lead to a flat out rejection. "Now?" she questioned.

"Well, the day is young and you still have almost an hour free! It would be a wonderful way to spend the morning!" Draco snorted and bit down hard on his lip to keep from laughing. Spending the morning digging in dirt and dung did not rank high on his list of favourites, and it didn't on Ginny's either if the look on her face was any indication. It was, however, a most entertaining exchange to watch from far away.

"I'm quite in the middle of something," she tried again.

"Awh, come off it Gin. You've always got your head stuck in a book. Sometimes I think you're worse than Hermione. The NEWTs are _months_ away, Ginny, and before you know it, autumn will be gone and you'll have spent it all inside the library. We need to put some colour back in your cheeks, you're so pale these days! Come out to the greenhouse and just enjoy the fresh air and the sun. You can even bring your book!" Longbottom protested, and Draco silently laughed at how desperate he was sounding.

Though on second thought, Draco agreed that he had a point. Never in his life would he admit that Longbottom was right about anything, but that was secondary to the observations of King Gryffindork. Indeed, the little fiery hellspawn was behaving quite like that meddlesome frizzy-haired know it all, though she was infinitely more appealing to the eye and less vocal about her knowledge, which made her tolerable when she wasn't trying to humiliate him. She was abnormally pale for a Weasel too, so pale that he could see clearly the dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks from two tables away. On a second look, he could even discern the faded outlines of circles underneath her eyes, badly concealed testimonies of improper sleeping habits. Perhaps she knew some Glamour spells after all, though she was obviously pants at casting them, for Draco was willing to stake his family fortune again on the fact that she hadn't slept a wink the night before. _So the littlest Weasel is an insomniac,_ he mussed, _it would certainly explain why she was out on the grounds so late on Monday. _

"Well, maybe you have a point. I have been inside too often this month," he watched as she conceded the point.

"It's settled then, you're coming with me and that's that," Longbottom replied with that sickening smile on his face. Draco clenched his hands into fists and then unclenched them. There was no reason to dirty his hands with Longbottom's death. Sooner or later the fool would do himself in just fine.

"I'll just gather up my stuff then. I'll only be a second." With two quickly muttered spells the quill, ink and parchments folded themselves in her bag and she shrunk the tome carefully and floated it to Madame Pince's desk for signing out. For a Muggle-lover, Ginny Weasley certainly used a lot of magic, Draco remarked. It wasn't just any kind of magic either; she was not shying away from complex spells that demanded precision and concentration. But he supposed that he shouldn't be surprised by her abilities given what she had done to his appearance. Knowledge and magical talent made her doubly dangerous to those who crossed her. Somehow, she didn't look like the type to adhere to Gryffindor ideals of fair play and honesty. Draco was willing to bet the Malfoy fortune yet again that she would have no qualms to stab him in the back while he was down should they ever cross wands in a duel.

Scowling at her retreating back, Draco watched Longbottom offer to carry her rucksack for her and saw Ginny's gentle smile as she declined and held onto the pack. Together they exited the library, chatting quietly. He had to grip the table to stop himself from getting up and following them to taunt and tease them about their love for each other. He was Head Boy, and his punishments had the power of being exquisitely devious. The Weaselette would pay for humiliating him. One way or another he would make sure of that.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Ginny's moments of peace and quiet seemed to always take place at the strangest times, when she least expected them and thus she could never find the appropriate time to savour them fully. It seemed to be the curse of her existence, her inability to find peace when she wanted or needed it, and Calm seemed to always creep up on her and then slink off before she fully comprehended its embrace. This time, it sneaked upon her as she was hurrying to her Prefect's meeting from her Muggle Studies class. For one sinfully clandestine moment there was total silence and stillness. Even the eternal breeze that drafted through the castle seemed to have stopped, and the hallway felt truly empty, devoid of the magic that crackled finely through it. Ginny stopped, embarrassed by her hurry and movement. Fleetingly, her imagination cast her as an immobile relic, a secret among the granite.

Thought stopped and stilled, vision blurred, touch faded and sound muted, until she could feel nothing but the tiredness in her bones and the weariness in her soul. It was fatigue, and sadness, and regret and resignation all welded together, inseparable and crueler in their togetherness than each taken individually. _What am I doing to myself?_ she hadn't asked that question since she had decided to stop pretending about her character. It was peculiar that she should ask it now, when she was so close to getting everything she had ever wanted, when she could feel the enticing call of freedom whispering out her name. Maybe it was the week of insomnia playing tricks on her mind, making doubts that she had long resolved rear their ugly heads in her thoughts again. Maybe it was last night's nightmare, or the general tension stretching in Gryffindor tower ever since Sunday, or the conspicuous looks she had been receiving from Ron, Hermione and Harry over missing breakfast every single day this week.

"I am helping myself," she whispered in the empty hallway, defiant of the silence that forbade all sound and movement. "I'm doing it because if I don't, nobody else will," she added, her hands clenched into fists by her sides.

And just like that, she had destroyed the moment, and it was permissible to move again, to make noise and to forgo the protective cloak of inexistence. The goose pimples on her flesh were the only testimony of her inner turmoil, but Ginny refused to acknowledge their existence. Straightening her back and jutting out her chin she made her way to the dungeons for the weekly Prefect's meeting.

By the time she pushed open the door of the classroom, Ginny was already fifteen minutes late, and the meeting seemed to be in full force. Malfoy's voice was bellowing out their next set of instructions and she tried to be as inconspicuous as possible in her arrival. Exhaustion always put her on edge, and she didn't fancy giving Malfoy another reason to pick away at her frayed nerves. Luck, however, was not with her that Wednesday, and just as she was creeping towards the nearest empty seat, Malfoy halted in the middle of his sentence, allowing a pregnant pause to fill the gap of his next words and giving time for all pairs of eyes in the room to settle firmly on her.

"How sweet that Gryffindor decided to join us today for the meeting," he sneered.

Out of reflex, for Ginny hated being patronized, she straightened her back, narrowed her eyes and glared at everyone around her. She had found out early in her childhood how much she hated being put on the spot. Her hands itched for her wand, and several very colourful hexes were finding their way into her brain. Good, meek, humble, harmless Ginny Weasley, however, did nothing of the sort. _The timing of keeping and losing control is the foundation of unpredictability, and a secret weapon to be used sparingly, _Tom's voice echoed in her head and she forced herself to breathe in deeply. He was right; she had to play the role a little longer.

"My apologies, Malfoy."

"Why Miss Weasley, there is nothing to apologise for! Please, feel free to grace us with your distinguished presence whenever _you_ feel it is necessary. After all, we are but _your_ humble servants and at the mercy of_ your_ great wit and intellect," Malfoy spat poisonously, and a series of snickers rippled through the crowd at his sarcasm.

Ginny knew she should just ignore his insult and take a seat, but her cheeky tongue could not hold in her reply, "Well, since you put it so endearingly, Malfoy, I think I shall take you up on your offer and grace you with my presence this time." Grinning, she headed straight for the front of the classroom and seated herself in his chair. Putting her feet up on the adjacent desk, she continued with a wave of her hand, "Please, continue. I am well seated now."

She could see Malfoy's face turn three different shades of red before he settled on murderous rage, but with so many witnesses around, he did not take the risk of hexing her into oblivion. Ginny knew that she had forced the situation yet again and that given Malfoy's revengeful spirit she would be in for quite a spot of trouble. He had yet to pay her back for her stunt involving his looks, and now she had humiliated him in public yet again. He would surely pay her back twofold for her impertinence. Ginny couldn't wait. As of late, the art of tormenting Malfoy, was one of the few things about Hogwarts that didn't fill her with dread, disgust and rage.

"If you've been reading the Prophet," Malfoy was saying, "you would have seen that the entire Ministry is in a state of uproar due to recent Death Eater activities. Headmaster Dumbledore and Deputy Headmistress McGonagall deemed it necessary, since we are the most talented students of the school, to use our magical knowledge and perform strengthening spells on all the wards, especially dormitories, common rooms and densely populated areas. I have been given a list with the kinds of wards that are currently in place and the spells that are required to strengthen them. We will be splitting off into groups…" Ginny tuned his voice out, well aware of the next sentences that would be rolling off his lips.

From her place in his chair, she surveyed the group of prefects, their eyes wide with apprehension and literally swallowing down every one of Malfoy's words. Ginny was unsurprised when she noticed that out of their tiny group of thirty, Ron and Hermione were absent. They, together with Harry, had been whispering to themselves in a corner of the common room ever since last Tuesday, and she had heard Creevey relate to Neville that they were working on Order business, with special permission from Dumbledore. Hermione had confirmed that rumour when she had delegated to Ginny the task of organizing the Halloween Ball, but she had never imagined that whatever they were doing was more important than a Prefect meeting. _Honestly, how much more obvious are you going to be about something that's supposedly a secret?_ Ginny snorted. But then again, they had never had to learn the art of disguise. It was natural that they wouldn't think of the message they would send to the Prefect body by missing the meeting where they would be discussing castle security.

"Are you having nice fantasies, Weaselette?" Malfoy's voice hissed in her ear, startling Ginny to the point that she tilted back in her chair and fell to the ground with a monstrous thump.

"They were riveting," she mumbled through clenched teeth as she massaged her sore back, thankful that she had had enough presence of spirit to avoid hitting her head on the floor tiles. "Until you decided to be a royal arse and scare them out of me!" she scowled at him as she picked herself up.

"Serves you right for daydreaming through one of my most memorable monologues," he sniffed at her disdainfully. It was then that Ginny realised that the meeting had ended and that she was alone with Malfoy in the Potions classroom.

"Wasn't very memorable if I tuned you out," she retorted with a scoff.

"Well, well, well, I would have never thought that _Ginevra Weasley_ of all people would show disinterest in the words of the mighty and revered Albus Dumbledore," he was smirking like a Cheshire cat, and his arms crossed over his chest made him look all the more imposing despite his comical appearance.

"It's cute that you took the time to learn my name, Malfoy," she parried. "But try saying it with much less malice. It's not meant to sound quite so choppy, but rather more melodious."

"Would you prefer its French variant, perhaps? _Guinevere_, faithless wife of Sir Arthur, lover to Lancelot and destroyer of Camelot?"

So he had not only bothered to learn her name, but he had researched its ancestry and meaning as well! For the first time ever, Malfoy had rendered her speechless, and Ginny struggled hard to think of any kind of retort, any kind of reply that would gain her back the footing she seemed to have lost, but could think of none. Instead, she found herself asking, "So did your eyes burn out and your hands fall off because you had to read Muggle fairytale?"

"Tsk, tsk, Ginevra, didn't Arthur ever teach you never to tickle a sleeping dragon?" he smirked at her malevolently.

"I guess I betrayed him before he got to that part," she retorted sarcastically, refusing to think of how closely her words matched the truth.

"Ah, and the mystery is, of course, who was the Lancelot for which you destroyed his Camelot?"

"Why I should think that you are quite acquainted with him already, Malfoy," she laughed, although it was dry and unnatural, a poor attempt at hiding just how well he had managed to unsettle her. "As a lapdog of Lord Voldemort, you should know very well how persuasive he can be."

He laughed at her, just as she had expected. She could see from the amused look on his face that he didn't believe her, and it was just as well. Ginny enjoyed throwing the truth in the face of the unsuspecting public and watching the disbelief on their face. People only heard what they wanted to hear, automatically dismissing the uncomfortable truth as falsity.

"These lewd insinuations towards my loyalties have really got to stop, _Ginevra_. Or I might be forced to give you detention for spreading slanderous misinformation about the Head Boy," he threatened, his lips curved into a quirky smirk.

"Why, _Draco,_" she levelly replied, "I never knew you cared about your reputation enough to be offended by my commentary."

He flushed a bright red and then scrunched his face into a deforming scowl. "I believe it's time for you to hold up your end of the bargain we made last week," he deftly changed the subject.

She had to laugh at his discomfort. If there was something to be said about Malfoy, it was that he knew how to beat a hasty retreat and return with an attack in full-force within seconds of his defeat. He seemed to have a boundless capability to rebound, even from some of her most malicious comments. Whether it was foolish bravery or stubborn pride, Ginny had not yet decided. "Yes, yes, don't get your panties in a knot now, I haven't forgotten," she replied slowly, and bent down to pick up her discarded knapsack.

Truth be told, she had anticipated Malfoy to waltz up to her at breakfast and demand that she restore to him his Malfoy ancestry. It had been quite surprising that he had waited this long before calling in their Earth Vow. Ginny had wondered if he had not perhaps forgotten about it, seeing how she had already decided to wait until the moment when he would demand his release from the spell before she would give it to him. There was something infinitely satisfying about hearing Malfoy begging and grovelling at her feet. "Say please, now," she smiled as innocently as possible, while dangling a bright-blue vial of potion before his extended hand.

"I am not your pet, Weaselette," he growled dangerously.

"I already have a pet Ferret," she informed him in her sunny tone. "And he's much more well behaved than you."

"How charming," he sneered, "now hand the bloody thing over before I change my mind and decide to hex you."

Within heartbeats, Ginny's wand was in her hand and pointed directly at Malfoy's chest. "Threats, _Draco_, will get you nowhere with me," she hissed, and placed the potion gingerly on a desk to her left.

"Right, I keep on forgetting you're a backstabbing, traitorous, bi––––nt, _Ginevra_," Malfoy drawled.

"And don't you forget it." With cat-like agility she side-stepped his larger form and made her way out of the classroom.

"Wait!" Malfoy's call stopped her just as she was about to turn the handle and be gone from his presence. Ginny turned around to face him, curious about what he had to say now. "Aren't you going to stick around to see if this works?" he asked, holding up the blue vial.

"There's no need. The day one of my potions doesn't work is the day I check myself into St. Mungos for clinical insanity," Ginny informed him. _And I definitely have no plans to give Tom the satisfaction of seeing me crazy on account of him_, she added silently. This was a battle she was going to win.

The look on Malfoy's face as Ginny turned around and exited the classroom was distrusting. She supposed it was only fair. He had no reason to trust her, given that she had proven she could easily best him magically. Nonetheless, he should have known that an Earth Vow did not allow any sort of tampering with the magical promise that bound her. She was compelled by the oath to produce the remedy that would cure his case of Weasley looks or else suffer horrible consequences.

The Gryffindor Common Room was crowded when she finally reached it, and with a brief glance towards her housemates, Ginny hurried upstairs to the quietness of her bedroom, wanting to avoid all of those that wanted to speak to her. Maybe if she was lucky she could nap a little before dinner. That was, of course, if the herd of nightmares decided to leave her alone for long enough to get a decent nap. _When was the last time I slept?_ she asked herself. When the answer refused to present itself, Ginny decided that it had indeed been too long since she had felt the contours of her pillow.

She had barely settled into the soft confines of her linens, had managed to disregard her dislike for the vapid yellows and reds of the covers and was burrowing deeper in her search for the velvety folds of sleep, when, from the uninhabited bed to her right the panicked voice of Hermione shattered through Ginny's sleepiness. "Ow Ron! Watch what you're doing with those!" she was shrieking. "No, no, you're not supposed to add in bezoars! Now look what you did, you neutralized the entire solution! Ronald Weasley!"

She was sounding rather cross and upset, and Ginny's curiosity prompted her to rise out of her bed, forget about her sleep and pull open the hangings of the other bed in question. "Wotcher Hermione," she employed Tonks' cheery greeting nonchalantly as her eyes surveyed the scene before her.

The air crackled with traces of magic. She could feel the distinctive traces of concealment and engorgement charms, as well as protective spells. Levitated above the bed was a medium sized cauldron with a small fire burning underneath. The now ruined mixture was a milky, egg-white colour with a thin yellow smoke rising gently out of it. Across the cauldron, Hermione was glaring accusingly at Ron who looked as guilty as she looked angry, and beside him Harry had his head peered in an _Advanced Third Grade Poisons and Antidotes_ Restricted Textbook.

"Harry, what is the purpose of actually concealing our activities when you can't put simple Silencing and Sticking charms to the curtains?" Hermione hissed at the bespectacled boy sitting cross-legged across from her. "Hullo Ginny," she drawled out tersely.

"Sorry 'Mione," Harry whispered absentmindedly, his eyes glued to the pages before him.

"Well there's no point in doing anything about it now, is there? I mean, the Weasel King over here managed to stupendously screw it up, as usual," Hermione threw Ron another withering glare.

"Hey, don't you go blaming me!" Ron exclaimed, his face hot with rage. "For the first and only time in my life I'm following potion instructions to the dot! It's _your _bloody handwriting that's been telling me to do that!"

Ginny laughed, debating whether or not to get involved in their heated argument. From the looks of it, it didn't look like it was going to end any time soon. "So, what're you making?" she tried a harmless question.

"An Undetectable Po-," Hermione had started in her most serious voice, before she had realised who had asked the question. Eyes wide with fright at almost having spilled her precious little secret, she clamped down on the rest of the predictable syllables and explanations that would have followed.

Were Ginny not accustomed to Hermione's serious treatment of the subject of secrecy she might have been annoyed. As things stood, however, she was simply amused at Hermione's slip up and waited in silence to see how the situation would be handled amongst the group. She had never doubted that Harry was the leader of the pack. But would his word be accepted without question or would Hermione argue with him? It was a fine distinction that played a huge role in power and group dynamics. Ginny's curiosity overrode her tiredness for the moment.

"Oh come off it 'Mione," Harry interrupted. "Ginny's bound to find out sooner or later given that we're brewing this right in her room. It's a miracle that she hasn't caught us before now," he added.

"Well, if you hadn't forgotten to put up the Silencing Charm!" Hermione huffed angrily.

"Well if you had decided to take up Dumbledore's offer of a private room," Ron blurted angrily, "then we wouldn't have this problem. But no, you had to go and be noble and bring up all that 'I'm the same as every other student' crap," he muttered a few more words under his breath, but Ginny did not concern herself with Ron's ire. She guessed it was more annoyance over the fact that it was quite hard to sneak into his girlfriend's dormitory for some private time given that she was sharing with three other girls, one of which was his sister.

"Anyway," Hermione turned her attention back to Ginny, intent on ignoring anything and everything that came out of Ron's mouth. "It's an Undetectable Poison, with a delay mechanism and which operates on multiple strands. It's based on the assumption that the organism it is infecting is stronger than the regular wizard's and hence it might be able to suppress strands of poison on its own. By being able to combine and form more than one kind of poison, it guarantees a weakening of the superior organism and almost certain death."

She could have done without the explanation, Ginny thought caustically, but knowing it wiser to keep her mouth shut said nothing. The Dream Team had absolutely no idea that her hobby in the past year and a half had been collecting difficult and rare books of magic which had endowed her with some very useful and long-forgotten magical skills. What Hermione was relating to her as information of absolute importance, Ginny knew to be only the tip of the iceberg. An Undetectable Poison did more than combine to form multiple strands of poison within the recipient's body. It also integrated itself in the recipient's magical signature and physical tissue, hence leaving no traces of uncommon substances or magic in the body. Moreover, it was invented by Wendelin the Weird in a Muggle prison in between times when she waited to be burned at the stake.

"So who do you want to kill?" Ginny asked, disregarding Hermione's explanation.

"Not us," Harry replied in her place, "Lupin's been infiltrating the Werewolf Underground, and in order to guide his pack and persuade other packs away from Voldemort's evil promises he needs to become pack leader. The only way to do that is to kill the alpha Werewolf who is recognized as boss. Surprisingly enough, Werewolf justice does not exist, and so fowl play is an acceptable means of overthrowing the current head of pack."

"Well, in that case, Ron did a good thing by throwing in those bezoars," Ginny observed calmly.

"How so?" Hermione's voice was frosty with disagreement.

"Well, there's not enough bezoars to neutralize an entire cauldron of Undetectable Poison. But they will help slow down the rate of reaction of the poison, making the death of the pack leader a slow affair. Lupin will have time to take over leadership responsibilities from the weakening leader and will succeed seamlessly into the pack. Nobody will ever think that he had something to do with the leader's death, and they will all be used to his leadership and capabilities and he will have a much easier time persuading them away from Tom."

"Hm, that's perhaps not a bad idea," Harry agreed thoughtfully. Hermione too, wore a similarly pensive expression.

"So you see, I _am_ brilliant!" Ron sniffed mockingly at Hermione. "It would do best that you don't question my judgement next time."

"Oh shut up, Ron," she replied, anger back into her voice. "It was just beginner's luck and Ginny's wit that got you out of this one, so don't even try pretending it was your own superior intelligence. If she wouldn't have come along, we would have had an entire batch of ruined poison and would have to start anew."

"You're welcome," Ginny interjected, before she could fully think her comment through. Harry grinned back at her conspiringly and Hermione muttered a stiff thank you. Ron said nothing. "Well, you lot take care then. I'm off to take a quick nap before dinner, so please put on the Silencing and Sticking charms," she continued with a pleasant smile.

She had been walking away, towards her own bed, when Hermione's voice cut through the silence of the bedroom once more, "Ginny, what happened at the Prefect's meeting today?" she asked, peering her head through the obscenely red curtains.

"Oh, nothing much. Malfoy was the general self-important prat he always is. Was talking about how the Prefects have additional responsibilities now to strengthen the castle's security. I think he split us off into pairs and he's going to give us a list of the wards and spells that need strengthening and then we're going to work on different areas of the castle," she related with surprising ease, given the fact that she had not been paying attention to the better part of the meeting.

"Yes, I knew that much," Hermione replied with a frown. "I handed him a list of the prefect pairs and the suggested wards that they strengthen. We're going to be sacrificing our Hogsmeade weekends to perform this task, since it's safer to perform complicated ward magic when the castle is free of students."

Ginny found herself sheepishly blushing at Hermione's words. Malfoy would have undoubtedly handed out the pair assignments to the remainder of the prefects, but due to the fact that she hadn't been paying attention, she would be humiliated into having to seek him out to find out the name of her partner. It was a devious way to get revenge, and one that stung Ginny's pride and ego more than she cared to admit. Next time, she would most assuredly hang onto Malfoy's every petty word in the hopes of not repeating this incident. "Say Hermione," an idea began to grow at the back of Ginny's mind, "you wouldn't happen to have a copy of that parchment, would you? I fear I've forgotten my assignment in all of this excitement."

There was silence for a minute, then the shuffling of papers and then Hermione's head appeared through the curtains once more. "Here you go," the bushy-haired girl replied, handing her one of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes Cheating Scrolls.

"A Cheating Scroll, Hermione?" Ginny asked, her expression wholly bemused.

"It's not like you think," the other girl flushed, "but I can't be chasing down Malfoy all the time when I want something done. The Cheating Scrolls work in pairs, so I just write something on mine, and it appears on his, and it's easier to keep track of everything."

It was like Hermione to figure out the most time-efficient solution to her Head Girl duties. Inwardly, Ginny was impressed, though a bit nervous to be holding a piece of paper that could write back. She had learned all about those in her first year and had no desire to re-learn her lesson. However, as her eyes scanned the scroll, the tension in her stomach was replaced by sheer dread. "I'm assuming you're not the one that made these denominations," she thrust the scroll back into Hermione's outstretched hand.

Hermione's face turned three shades of livid before she tore her eyes from the parchment. "Why I've never!" she sputtered helplessly. "When I get my hands on Malfoy he's going to wish he stayed that stupid little ratty ferret!

"What happened?" Ron asked, invisible behind the river of red curtains.

"He, he's changed all the Prefect pairs without consulting me about it!" Hermione shrieked, waving the parchment in Ginny's face.

"Not only that, but it seems that all Gryffindor Prefects are paired up with Slytherin ones," Ginny observed as she gingerly plucked the offending paper from Hermione's hands and scanned the list. "Why on earth would Malfoy want to pair up Hermione and Parkinson, Zabini and Ron, and most importantly me and him together?"

"You and Malfoy? Absolutely not!" Ron screeched, fumbling with the curtains well enough that he ended up falling off the bed.

"Oh give it up, Ron," Hermione sighed down at him, exasperated. "It makes sense: she cursed him, and now he wants to get revenge by driving her to madness with his riveting personality and mannerisms."

Inwardly, Ginny agreed with her assessment. It seemed that Malfoy had devised a method of punishing her for her cheek after all. And it was most devious indeed. "It still doesn't explain why she paired you guys the way he did," she stated.

"Maybe he's promoting House Unity. Maybe he's trying to subtly encourage the Slytherins towards our side," Harry's voice suggested calmly.

Three heads immediately snapped to attention.

"Yeah right, Harry. Malfoy? He's been your fiercest rival for seven years running. He's almost competing with You-Know-Who for Harry Potter's Number One Enemy spot. Why would he try to help you win the war?" Ron jokingly questioned.

"Maybe because he's realised that Voldemort will lose." The quiet confidence in Harry's tone was staggering. Ginny shivered, but preferred to attribute it to the dampness of the room, not to her sudden fear of the green-eyed boy she had known for most of her life.

"Well, there's nothing we can do now. He's already given the lists to Dumbledore and he hasn't made any changes to them, so we're stuck like this until the end of the assignment. Working with Parkinson's going to be such an amazing experience," Hermione made a gagging face and Ginny giggled.

"Don't count your dragons before they're hatched," she advised with a grin, but sadly, the irony of the saying was lost on Hermione. It was, Ginny considered, the sort of thing she should be telling herself. After all, she was the one about to get thrown into the dragon's den.


End file.
